"And I could have forgiven you Paterson, but I couldn't forgive you Fulcher. Do you see?"
He allowed a few moments for reflection, and continued.
"Of course, I understand your feelings. In fact I sympathize profoundly. As a rule I never dream of touching anything with your signature; I've far too great a reverence for style."
"Style be d——d. For all I care you may cut up my style till you can't tell it from Fulcher's. I object to your transposing my meaning to suit your own. Honestly, Jewdwine, I'd rather write like Fulcher than write as you've made me appear to have written."
"My dear Rickman, that's where you make the mistake. You don't appear at all." He smiled with urbane tolerance of the error. "The editor, as you know, is solely responsible for unsigned reviews."
So far Jewdwine had come off well. He had always a tremendous advantage in his hereditary manners; however right you had been to start with, his imperturbable refinement put you grossly in the wrong. And at this point Rickman gave himself away.
"What's the good of that?" said he, "if young Paterson believes I wrote them?"
"Young Paterson isn't entitled to any belief in the matter."
"But—he knew."
There was a shade of genuine annoyance on Jewdwine's face.