"Well, all I can tell you is that two or three days ago your brother received a copy of the review and a letter from the editorial offices. I was sorting out your letters and noticed the address on the outside. Afterwards at breakfast he opened it and took out a check." "James would call me a rosy cherub," John muttered. "Moreover, I did tell him about Bertram and the pudding-dish when he was playing at Perseus. And--no, James doesn't admire Keats." "Poor man," said Miss Hamilton, charitably. "Yes, I suppose one ought to be sorry for him rather than angry," John agreed, snatching at the implied consolation. "All the same, I think I ought to speak to him about his behavior. Of course, he's quite at liberty to despise my work, but I don't think he should take advantage of our relationship to introduce a note of personal--well, really, I don't think he has any right to call me a round and rosy cherub in print. After all, the public doesn't know what a damned failure James himself is. I shouldn't so mind if it really was a big pot calling the kettle black. I could retaliate then. But as it is I can do nothing." "Except stick it in your press-cutting book," suggested Miss Hamilton, with a smile. "And then my mother goes and presents him with all the silver! No, I will not overlook this lapse of taste; I shall speak to him about it this morning. But suppose he asks me how I found out?" "You must tell him." "You don't mind?" "I'm your secretary, aren't I?" "By Jove, Miss Hamilton, you know, you really are...." John stopped. He wanted to tell her what a balm her generosity was to his wound; but he felt that she would prefer him to be practical. It was like the critic to welcome with composure the accusation of what John called his duplicity, or rather of what he called duplicity in the privacy of his own thoughts: to James he began by referring to it as exaggerated frankness. "I said nothing more than I've said a hundred times to your face," his brother pointed out. "That may be, but you didn't borrow money from me on the strength of what you said. You told me you had an article on Alfred de Vigny appearing shortly. You didn't tell me that you were raising the money as a post obit on my reputation." "My dear Johnnie, if you're going to abuse me in metaphors, be just at any rate. Your reputation was a corpse before I dissected it." "Very well, then," cried John, hotly, "have it your own way and admit that you're a body-snatcher." "However," James continued, with a laugh that was for him almost apologetic, "though I hate excuses, I must point out that the money I borrowed from you was genuinely on account of Alfred de Vigny and that this was an unexpected windfall. And to show I bear you no ill will, which is more than can be said for most borrowers, here's the check I received. I'm bound to say you deserve it." "I don't want the money."