"I've given you my reasons for it."
"No; that's what you've not done. Surely we've known each other too long for this foolishness. Of course, it's considerate of you not to damn me for the entertainment of the British public; but you know you're the only man in England whose judgment I care about, and I confess I'd like to have your private opinion—the usual honest and candid thing, you know. I'm not talking of gods, men, and columns."
Knowles sat silent, frowning.
"Oh, well, of course, if you'd rather not, there's nothing more to be said."
"Not much."
But Wyndham's palpitating egoism was martyred by this silence beyond endurance, and he burst out in spite of himself—
"But it's inconceivable to me, after the way you've treated my first crude work. You must have set up some new canons of art since then. Otherwise I should say you were inconsistent."
But Knowles was not to be drawn out, if he could possibly help it.
"Do you mind telling me one thing—have you anything to say against its form?"
"Not a word. I admit that in form it's about as perfect as it well could be. I—er—" (he was beginning to feel that he could not help it) "object to your use of your matter."