scue. 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 _Prejudices_ was withdrawn by the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."

'When he first received his own book for review he recalled the words of
Curtis. He must be honest, impartial, and just. No one knew better the
faults of _Prejudices_. As he began to write, the old spirit of the
slater came over him. His better self conquered. He forgot for the
moment that he was the author. He hardly realised the sting of his own
sarcasms even when he saw them in proof. It was not until it appeared,
and the papers were full of the controversy, that the _cruelty_ and
_unfairness_ of the attack dawned on him. I was much shocked at the
confession, and the extraordinary duplicity of Burrage, who had been
living