Those simple and definite facts were these:  I had published an article in this magazine, with you for my subject; just you yourself; I stuck strictly to that one subject, and did not interlard any other.  No one, of course, could call me to account but you alone, or your authorized representative.  I asked some questions—­asked them of myself.  I answered them myself.  My article was thirteen pages long, and all devoted to you; devoted to you, and divided up in this way:  one page of guesses as to what subjects you would instruct us in, as teacher; one page of doubts as to the effectiveness of your method of examining us and our ways; two or three pages of criticism of your method, and of certain results which it furnished you; two or three pages of attempts to show the justness of these same criticisms; half a dozen pages made up of slight fault-findings with certain minor details of your literary workmanship, of extracts from your ‘Outre-Mer’ and comments upon them; then I closed with an anecdote.  I repeat—­for certain reasons—­that I closed with an anecdote.

When I was asked by this magazine if I wished to “answer” a “reply” to that article of mine, I said “yes,” and waited in Paris for the proof-sheets of the “reply” to come.  I already knew, by the cablegram, that the “reply” would not be signed by you, but upon reflection I knew it would be dictated by you, because no volunteer would feel himself at liberty to assume your championship in a private dispute, unasked, in view of the fact that you are quite well able to take care of your matters of that sort yourself and are not in need of any one’s help.  No, a volunteer could not make such a venture.  It would be too immodest.  Also too gratuitously generous.  And a shade too self-sufficient.  No, he could not venture it.  It would look too much like anxiety to get in at a feast where no plate had been provided for him.  In fact he could not get in at all, except by the back way, and with a false key; that is to say, a pretext—­a pretext invented for the occasion by putting into my mouth words which I did not use, and by wresting sayings of mine from their plain and true meaning.  Would he resort to methods like those to get in?  No; there are no people of that kind.  So then I knew for a certainty that you dictated the Reply yourself.  I knew you did it to save yourself manual labor.

And you had the right, as I have already said and I am content—­perfectly content.

Yet it would have been little trouble to you, and a great kindness to me, if you had written your Reply all out with your own capable hand.