I had sacrificed everything for The Light of Bengal. My Critical Mace was the dread of every writer, great and small. Now, by the aid of this mace I would accomplish an act of friendship. Once a doubt arose whether this would not be a breach of my editorial duties, but aided by my inclination, I easily succeeded in putting my conscience to sleep.
Thus resolving, I wrote a terribly sharp review of "Nandarani," pulling it to pieces, and sent it to Calcutta to appear in the October number of my journal.
In due time the order proofs arrived. Upon them, in various places, I sharpened the sting of criticism. On that afternoon Satish came in. Seeing "Nandarani" on my table, he took it up. I said hastily—don't touch it, it is only a Bengali book."
"You have been so occupied with this wretched book lately that you have not been to see us for a week. Whenever I come here I find you at work on this book; so I have come to carry it off."
"I have been reviewing the work. You can take it away now, as I have finished."
"The review is finished?"
"Yes; I despatched the order proofs by post some minutes ago." Seeing Satish concerning
