He had got to make that clear to Jewdwine; and anything more unpleasant than the coming interview he could not well conceive.

Unpleasantness you would have said, was far from Jewdwine’s mind that Sunday evening.  He himself suggested nothing of the sort.  He was in his study, sitting in an armchair with a shawl over his knees, smoking a cigarette and looking more pathetically refined than ever after his influenza, when Rickman burst in upon his peace.  He was so frankly glad to see him that his greeting alone was enough to disarm prejudice.  It seemed likely that he would carry off the honours of the discussion by remaining severely polite while Rickman grew more and more perturbed and heated.  Rickman, however, gained at the outset by making straight for his point.  As Jewdwine gave him no opening he had to make one and make it as early as possible, before the great man’s amenities had time to lure him from the track.

“I wish,” said he abruptly, “you’d tell me what was wrong with those reviews of mine, that you found it necessary to alter them?”

“The reviews?  Oh, the reviews were all right—­excellent material—­they only wanted a little editing.”

“Do you mind telling me what you mean by editing?”

“That is the last point an editor is competent to explain.”

“All the same I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say.  I think you’ll admit that you owe me some explanation.”

“My dear fellow—­sit down, won’t you?—­I admit nothing of the sort.”

Jewdwine no longer stood on his dignity, he lay back on it, lounged on it, stretched all his graceful length upon it, infinitely at ease.  Time had mellowed his manners and made them incomparably gentle and humane.

“You seem to think I took a liberty with your articles.  I didn’t.  I merely exercised an ancient editorial right.  I couldn’t possibly have let them be printed as they stood.  Conceive my feelings if I’d had to sit next to Mr. Fulcher at dinner that evening.  It might easily have happened.  It’s all very well for you, Rickman; you’re young and irresponsible, and you haven’t got to sit next to Mr. Fulcher at dinner; but you’ll own that it would have been rather an awkward situation for me?”

“I can forgive you Fulcher, but I can’t forgive you Paterson.”

“And I could have forgiven you Paterson, but I couldn’t forgive you Fulcher.  Do you see?”

He allowed a few moments for reflection, and continued.

“Of course, I understand your feelings.  In fact I sympathize profoundly.  As a rule I never dream of touching anything with your signature; I’ve far too great a reverence for style.”

“Style be d——­d.  For all I care you may cut up my style till you can’t tell it from Fulcher’s.  I object to your transposing my meaning to suit your own.  Honestly, Jewdwine, I’d rather write like Fulcher than write as you’ve made me appear to have written.”