"It seems reasonably clear to me," he said.

"It is an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journal
from its foundation. Her work has given every satisfaction to Mr.
Wilberfloss. And now, without the slightest warning, comes this
peremptory dismissal from W. Windsor. Who is W. Windsor? Where is
Mr. Wilberfloss?"

The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all
wanted to know: Who was W. Windsor? Where was Mr. Wilberfloss?

"I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts, sir," said a cadaverous-
looking man with pale blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I have
contributed 'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for a very
considerable period of time."

"I have read your page with the keenest interest," said Psmith. "I
may be wrong, but yours seems to me work which the world will not
willingly let die."

The Reverend Edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.

"And yet," continued Psmith, "I gather that Comrade Windsor, on the
other hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. It is these
strange contradictions, these clashings of personal taste, which
make up what we call life. Here we have, on the one hand--"

A man with a face like a walnut, who had hitherto lurked almost
unseen behind a stout person in a serge suit, bobbed into the open,
and spoke his piece.