Not, as he was careful to inform you, that this
argued any sort of intimacy; on the contrary, it meant that he was
always losing sight of him in between. These lapses in their
intercourse might be shorter or longer (they were frequently immense),
but they had this advantage, that each fresh encounter presented
Rickman as an entirely new thing, if anything, more curious and
interesting than on the day, three years ago, when he unearthed him
from behind the counter of a dingy second-hand bookshop in the City.
He felt responsible for that, too.
Rickman was instantly aware that he was under criticism. But he
mistook its nature and its grounds.
"Don't suppose," said he, "I'm ashamed of the shop. It isn't that. I
wasn't ashamed of our other place--that little rat 'ole in the City."
Jewdwine shuddered through all his being.
"--But I _am_ ashamed of this gaudy, pink concern. It's so brutally
big. It can't live, you know, without sucking the life out of the
little booksellers. They mayn't have made a great thing out of it, but
they were happy enough before we came here."
"I never thought of it in that light."
"Haven't you? I have."
It was evident that little Rickman was deeply moved. His sentiments
did him credit, and he deserved to be asked to dinner. At Hampstead?
No--no, not at Hampstead; here, at the Club. The Club was the proper
thing; a public recognition of him was the _amende honorable_.
Besides, after all, it was the Club, not Jewdwine, that had offended,
and it was right that the Club should expiate its offence.
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