poet offered
whisky and soda, and could hardly conceal his surprise when it was
refused.

"You must forgive me," he said presently, "for never having heard of
you till yesterday. My secretary keeps these things from me as a rule.
This time she allowed herself to be corrupted."

Rickman felt a sudden interest in Miss Gurney.

"Your poems were sent to her by a friend of hers, with the request--a
most improper one--that I should read them. I had no intention of
reading them; but I was pleased with the volume at first sight. It was
exactly the right length."

"The right length?"

"Yes, small octavo; the very best length for making cigar lighters."

Rickman had heard of the sardonic, the cruel humour with which
Fielding scathed his contemporaries; still, he could hardly have
expected even him to deal such a violent and devilish blow. Though he
flushed with the smart he bore himself bravely under it. After all, it
was to see Fielding that he had come.

"I am proud," said he, "to have served so luminous a purpose."

His readiness seemed to have disarmed the formidable Fielding. He
leaned back in his chair and looked at the young man a moment or two
without speaking. Then the demon stirred in him again with a malignant
twinkle of his keen eyes.

"You see I was determined to treat you honourably, as you came to me
through a friend of Miss Gurney's. But for her, you would have gone
where your contemporaries go--into the waste-paper basket. They serve
no purpose--luminous or otherwise." He chuckled ominously. "I had the
knife ready for you. But if you want to know why I paused in the deed
of destruction, it was because I was fascinated, positively fascinated
by the abominations of your illustrator. And so, before I knew what I
was doing (or I assure you I would never have done it), I had read,
actually read the lines which the creature quotes at the bottom of his
foul frontispiece. Why he quoted them I do not know--they have no more
to do with his obscenities than I have. And then--I read the poem they
were taken from."

He paused. His pauses were deadly.

"You have one great merit in my eyes."

Rickman looked up with a courageous smile, prepared for another
double-edged pleasantry more murderous than the last.

"You have not imitated me."

For one horrible moment Rickman was inspired to turn some phrase about
the hopelessness of imitating the inimitable. He thought better of it;
but not before the old man divi