Quite suddenly, Lypiatt lost his self-control. All the accumulated anger and bitterness of the last days burst out. His show had been a hopeless failure. Not a picture sold, a press that was mostly bad, or, when good, that had praised for the wrong, the insulting reasons. “Bright and effective work.” “Mr. Lypiatt would make an excellent stage designer.” Damn them! damn them! And then, when the dailies had all had their yelp, here was Mercaptan in the _Weekly World_ taking him as a text for what was practically an essay on insincerity in art. “How dare you?” he furiously shouted. “You—how dare you talk about sincerity? What can you know about sincerity, you disgusting little bug!” And avenging himself on the person of Mr. Mercaptan against the world that had neglected him, against the fate that had denied him his rightful share of talent, Lypiatt sprang up and, seizing the author of the “Jus Primæ Noctis” by the shoulders, he shook him, he bumped him up and down in his chair, he cuffed him over the head. “How can you have the impudence,” he asked, letting go of his victim, but still standing menacingly over him, “to touch anything that even attempts to be decent and big?” All these years, these wretched years of poverty and struggle and courageous hope and failure and repeated disappointment; and now this last failure, more complete than all. He was trembling with anger; at least one forgot unhappiness while one was angry. Mr. Mercaptan had recovered from his first terrified surprise. “Really, _really_” he repeated, “_too_ barbarous. Scuffling like hobbledehoys.” “If you knew,” Lypiatt began; but he checked himself. If you knew, he was going to say, what those things had cost me, what they meant, what thought, what passion——But how could Mercaptan understand? And it would sound as though he were appealing to this creature’s sympathy. “Bug!” he shouted instead, “bug!” And he struck out again with the flat of his hand. Mr. Mercaptan put up his hands and ducked away from the slaps, blinking. “Really,” he protested, “_really_....” Insincere? Perhaps it was half true. Lypiatt seized his man more furiously than before and shook him, shook him. “And then that vile insult about the vermouth advertisement,” he cried out. That had rankled. Those flaring, vulgar posters! “You thought you could mock me and spit at me with impunity, did you? I’ve stood it so long, you thought I’d always stand it? Was that it? But you’re mistaken.” He lifted his fist. Mr. Mercaptan cowered away, raising his arm to protect his head. “Vile bug of a coward,” said Lypiatt, “why don’t you defend yourself like a man? You can only be dangerous with words. Very witty and spiteful and cutting about those vermouth posters, wasn’t it? But you wouldn’t dare to fight me if I challenged you.”