Rickman rose hastily, as if he were no longer able to sit still and bear it.
"Jewdwine," he said, and his voice had the vibration which the master had once found so irresistible. "Have you read young Paterson's poems?"
"Yes. I've read them."
"And what is your honest—your private opinion of them?"
"I'm not a fool, Rickman. My private opinion of them is the same as yours."
"What an admission!"
"But," said Jewdwine suavely, "that's not the sort of opinion my public—the public that pays for Metropolis—pays to have."
"You mean it's the sort of opinion I'm paid to give."
"Well, broadly speaking—of course there are exceptions, and Paterson in other circumstances might have been one of them—that's very much what I do mean."
"Then—I'm awfully sorry, Jewdwine—but if that's so I can't go on working for Metropolis. I must give it up. In fact, that's really what I came to say."