I pulled myself together. “What on earth then did Bousefield want? He said he wanted intellectual power.” “Yes, but Ray overdid it.” “Why, Bousefield said it was a thing he _couldn’t_ overdo.” “Well, Ray managed: he took Mr. Bousefield too literally. It appears the thing has been doing dreadfully, but the proprietor couldn’t say anything, because he had covenanted to leave the editor quite free. He describes himself as having stood there in a fever and seen his ship go down. A day or two ago the year was up, so he could at last break out. Maud says he did break out quite fearfully; he came to the house and let poor Ray have it. Ray gave it to him back; he reminded him of his own idea of the way the cat was going to jump.” I gasped with dismay. “Has Bousefield abandoned that idea? Isn’t the cat going to jump?” Mrs. Highmore hesitated. “It appears that she doesn’t seem in a hurry. Ray at any rate has jumped too far ahead of her. He should have temporised a little, Mr. Bousefield says; but I’m beginning to think, you know,” said my companion, “that Ray _can’t_ temporise.” Fresh from my emotions of the previous twenty-four hours I was scarcely in a position to disagree with her. “He published too much pure thought.” “Pure thought?” I cried. “Why, it struck me so often--certainly in a due proportion of cases--as pure drivel!” “Oh, you’re more keyed up than he! Mr. Bousefield says that of course he wanted things that were suggestive and clever, things that he could point to with pride. But he contends that Ray didn’t allow for human weakness. He gave everything in too stiff doses.” Sensibly, I fear, to my neighbour I winced at her words; I felt a prick that made me meditate. Then I said: “Is that, by chance, the way he gave _me?_” Mrs. Highmore remained silent so long that I had somehow the sense of a fresh pang; and after a minute, turning in my seat, I laid my hand on her arm, fixed my eyes upon her face and pursued pressingly: “Do you suppose it to be to my ‘Occasional Remarks’ that Mr. Bousefield refers?” At last she met my look. “Can you bear to hear it?” “I think I can bear anything now.” “Well then, it was really what I wanted to give you an inkling of. It’s largely over you that they’ve quarrelled. Mr. Bousefield wants him to chuck you.” I grabbed her arm again. “And Limbert _won’t?_” “He seems to cling to you. Mr. Bousefield says no magazine can afford you.” I gave a laugh that agitated the very coachman. “Why, my dear lady, has he any idea of my price?” “It isn’t your price--he says you’re dear at any price; you do so much to sink the ship. Your ‘Remarks’ are called ‘Occasional,’ but nothing could be more deadly regular: you’re there month after month and you’re never anywhere else. And you supply no public want.” “I supply the most delicious irony.”