"I can't think why they didn't take it, sir. It's fine stuff. A shade
too long for a magazine article. It may have been that, of course."
But Mr. Ricardo bent down and began to gather up his manuscript. The
paper was of all kinds and sizes, covered with crabbed writing and
fierce erasures. It was oddly like himself--disordered, a little
desperate, not very clean. When he had all the sheets together he sat
with them hugged against his breast and bent closer to Christine,
speaking in a mysterious whisper.
"It's not that. Robert knows it isn't, but he doesn't care any more.
He'll say anything. But I know. I've guessed it a long time. People
have found out. They say to one another, when I send in my papers,
'This man is a liar. Every morning of his life he gives his assent to
lies. And now he is going to teach the very lies he pretends to
exterminate. We can't have anything to do with a man like that.' And
there's a conspiracy, Miss Christine, a conspiracy----" His voice
began to rise and tremble. "They've taken me off my old classes under
the pretext that they are too much for me. They've set me on to
Scripture. Then they told me I had to remember--remember
circumstances--to prevent myself from saying what I thought of such
devilish cruelty. But I saw that they wanted me to break out so that
they could get rid of me altogether, and I held my tongue. One of
these days, though, I shall stand up in the open places and tell the
truth.
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