became unreasonably angry. He resolved to strike back.

The review of his book in the Argus was vigorously severe, and perhaps
what maddened him more than anything else was the fact that, in spite
of his self-esteem he realized the truth of the criticism. If his books
had been less successful, or if he had been newer as an author, he
might possibly have set himself out to profit by the keen thrusts given
him by the Argus. He might have remembered that although Tennyson
struck back at Christopher North, calling him rusty, crusty, and musty,
yet the poet eliminated from later editions all blemishes which musty
Christopher had pointed out.

Streeter resolved to strike back with something more tangible than a
sarcastic verse. He quite admitted, even to himself, that a critic had
every right to criticise--that was what he was for--but he claimed that
a man who pretended to be an author's friend and who praised his books
to his face, had no right to go behind his back and pen a criticism so
scathing as that which appeared in the Argus: for Streeter knew that
Alfred Davison had written the criticism in the Argus, and Davison had
posed as his friend; and had pretended as well, that he had a great
admiration for Streeter's books.

As Streeter walked down the Boulevard des Italians, he saw, seated in
front of a café, the man whom he hoped to meet: and furthermore, he was
pleased to see that the man had a friend with him. The recognition of
author and critic was mutual.

"Hallo, Streeter," cried Davison; "when did you come over?"

"I left London yesterday," answered Streeter.