It was a little while before Lucia realized that this rather overpowering visitor was requesting her to "give up" certain sonnets of Keith Rickman's, written in ninety-three. "I don't quite understand. Are you asking me to give you the manuscript or to give my consent to its publication?"
"Well—both. I have to ask you because he never would do it himself."
"Why should he not?"
"Oh, well, you know his ridiculous notions of honour."
"I do indeed. I daresay some people would consider them ridiculous."
It was this speech, Maddox confessed, that first set his back up. He was irritated more by the calm assumption of proprietorship in Rickman than by the implied criticism of himself.
"Do you mind telling me," she continued, still imperturbably, "how you came to know anything about it?"
Maddox stiffened. "I am Mr. Rickman's oldest and most intimate friend, and he has done me the honour to make me his literary executor."
"Did he also give you leave to settle his affairs beforehand?"
Maddox shrugged his shoulders by way of a reply.