“Oleomargarine,” suggested Johnson. “It is rather warm. That phrase—‘revelling in the contempt of appearing contemptible’—I say, Wood, that is not English, you know, and it’s a scorcher, too.”
“Not English!” exclaimed George, whose blood was up at once. “Why not?”
“Because it is Volapück, or Malay—or something else, I don’t know what it is, though I admit its force.”
“I do not see how I can put it, then. It is just what we all feel.”
“Look here. You do not mean that your victim despises himself for appearing to be despicable, do you? He does, I dare say, but you wanted to hit him, not to show that he is still capable of human feeling. I think you meant to say that he rejoiced in his own indifference to contempt.”
“I believe I did,” said George, relinquishing the contest as soon as he saw he was wrong. “But ‘revel’ is not bad. Let that stand, at least.”
“You cannot revel in indifference, can you?” asked Johnson pitilessly.
“No. That is true. But it was English, all the same, though it did not mean what I intended.”
“I think not. You would not say an author appears green, would you? You would say he appears to be green. Then why say that a critic appears contemptible?”
“You are always right, Johnson,” George answered with a good-natured laugh. “I should have seen the mistake in the proof.”