"Don't suppose," said he, "I'm ashamed of the shop. It isn't that. I
wasn't ashamed of our other place--that little rat 'ole in the City."

Jewdwine shuddered through all his being.

"--But I _am_ ashamed of this gaudy, pink concern. It's so brutally
big. It can't live, you know, without sucking the life out of the
little booksellers. They mayn't have made a great thing out of it, but
they were happy enough before we came here."

"I never thought of it in that light."

"Haven't you? I have."

It was evident that little Rickman was deeply moved. His sentiments
did him credit, and he deserved to be asked to dinner. At Hampstead?
No--no, not at Hampstead; here, at the Club. The Club was the proper
thing; a public recognition of him was the _amende honorable_.
Besides, after all, it was the Club, not Jewdwine, that had offended,
and it was right that the Club should expiate its offence.

"What are you doing at Easter?" he asked.

Rickman stroked his upper lip and smiled as if cherishing a joy as
secret and unborn as his moustache. He recited a selection from the
tale of his engagements.

"Can you dine with me here on Saturday? You're free, then, didn't you
say?"