'_Prejudices_ for some weeks had been the talk of London. It was a series of very ineffectual essays on different subjects. Sight, Colour, Sound, Art, Letters, and Religion were all dealt with in that highly glowing and original manner now termed _Style_. It was delightfully unwholesome and extraordinarily silly. Young persons had already begun to get foolish over it, and leaving the more stimulating pages of Mr. Pater they hailed the work as an earnest of the English Renaissance. Instead of stroking _Marius the Epicurean_ they fondled a copy of _Prejudices_. I prophesied that Burrage would vindicate himself over it and that the public would hear very little of _Prejudices_ in a year's time. The book was sent; and the first part of my prophecy was fulfilled, Burrage spared neither the author nor his admirers. The pedantry, the affected style, the cheap hedonism were all pitilessly exposed. London, rocked with laughter. Some of the admirers, with the generosity of youth, nobly came to the rescue. They made a paper war and talked of "The cruelty and cowardice of the attack," "The stab in the dark," "Journalistic marauding," "Disappointed author turned critic." The slate was one that I am bound to say was _killing_ in both senses of the word. A book less worthless could never have lived under it. It was one of those decisive reviews of all ages. _Prejudices_ was withdrawn by the publisher fearful of damaging his prestige. Yet it was never looked on as a rarity, and fell at book auctions for a shilling, for some time after, amidst general tittering. The daily papers meanwhile devoted columns to the discussion. I telegraphed to Burrage in cipher and congratulated him, knowing that secrets leak out sometimes through the post office. I was surprised to get no reply for some weeks, but Curtis said he was lying low while the excitement lasted. One day I got a letter simply saying, "For God's sake come. I am very ill." I went at once. How shall I describe to you the pitiful condition I found him in? The doctor told me he was suffering from incipient tuberculosis due to cerebral excitement and mental trouble. When I went in to see him he was lying in bed, pale and emaciated as a corpse, surrounded by friends and relations. He asked every one to go out of the room; he had something of importance to say to me. I then learned what you have divined already. The anonymous author of _Prejudices_ was no other than Quentin Burrage himself. Or rather not himself, but the other self of which neither I nor Curtis knew anything. He had been living a double existence. As a writer of trashy essays and verse, an incomplete sentimentalist surrounded by an admiring band of young ladies and gentlemen, he was not recognised as the able critic and the anonymous slater of the "Acropolis."