"Well, anyhow, he says that all political writers are worthless sycophants. You might begin on that."
"I will," I cried. "But craven anonymity is not my part. My name shall stand forth boldly. Fate's linger points the way. How do you spell 'sycophant'? The type has gone a bit dizzy over it."
And I plunged into the fray.
"Sir," I began; and there followed 2,000 words of closely-woven argument, down to "I remain, Sir, your obedient Servant."
I read it through carefully, looked up "sycophant" in the dictionary, and wrote it all out again.
Then I showed it to Enid.
"Why have you spelt 'sycophant' like that?" she asked.
"I——"
"No, 'y.'"
"It is a 'y.'"