He paused. His pauses were deadly.
"You have one great merit in my eyes."
Rickman looked up with a courageous smile, prepared for another double-edged pleasantry more murderous than the last.
"You have not imitated me."
For one horrible moment Rickman was inspired to turn some phrase about the hopelessness of imitating the inimitable. He thought better of it; but not before the old man divined his flattering intention. He shook himself savagely in his chair.
"Don't—please don't say what you were going to say. If you knew how I loathe my imitators. I shouldn't have sent for you if you had been one of them."
His mind seemed to be diverted from his present victim by some voluptuous and iniquitous reminiscence. Then he began again. "But you and your Saturnalia—Ah!"
He leant forward suddenly as he gave out the interjection like a growl.
"Do you know you're a very terrible young man? What do you mean by setting my old cracked heart dancing to those detestable tunes? I wish I'd never read the d——d things."
He threw himself back in his chair.