"Poor man," said Miss Hamilton, charitably.
"Yes, I suppose one ought to be sorry for him rather than angry," John agreed, snatching at the implied consolation. "All the same, I think I ought to speak to him about his behavior. Of course, he's quite at liberty to despise my work, but I don't think he should take advantage of our relationship to introduce a note of personal—well, really, I don't think he has any right to call me a round and rosy cherub in print. After all, the public doesn't know what a damned failure James himself is. I shouldn't so mind if it really was a big pot calling the kettle black. I could retaliate then. But as it is I can do nothing."
"Except stick it in your press-cutting book," suggested Miss Hamilton, with a smile.
"And then my mother goes and presents him with all the silver! No, I will not overlook this lapse of taste; I shall speak to him about it this morning. But suppose he asks me how I found out?"
"You must tell him."
"You don't mind?"
"I'm your secretary, aren't I?"
"By Jove, Miss Hamilton, you know, you really are...."
John stopped. He wanted to tell her what a balm her generosity was to his wound; but he felt that she would prefer him to be practical.
It was like the critic to welcome with composure the accusation of what John called his duplicity, or rather of what he called duplicity in the privacy of his own thoughts: to James he began by referring to it as exaggerated frankness.