He was extremely grateful to a kindly Providence which had arranged that this interview should take place at a time when nobody but himself was in the house.
“You say that you are Ralston McTodd, the author of these poems?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then what,” said Psmith incisively, “is a pale parabola of Joy?”
“Er—what?” said the new-comer in an enfeebled voice. There was manifest in his demeanour now a marked nervousness.
“And here is another,” said Psmith. “‘The——’ Wait a minute, I’ll get it soon. Yes. ‘The sibilant, scented silence that shimmered where we sat.’ Could you oblige me with a diagram of that one?”
“I—I—— What are you talking about?”
Psmith stretched out a long arm and patted him almost affectionately on the shoulder.
“It’s lucky you met me before you had to face the others,” he said. “I fear that you undertook this little venture without thoroughly equipping yourself. They would have detected your imposture in the first minute.”
“What do you mean—imposture? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”