On an evening towards the end of November, a week or so after these events, Strange and Arabella were sitting in the drawing-room at Soho-square. Arabella was writing a letter and Strange was plucking absent-mindedly at his hair and staring straight ahead of him. Suddenly he got up and went out of the room.

He reappeared an hour later with a dozen sheets of paper covered in writing.

Arabella looked up. “I thought the article for The Friends of English Magic was done,” she said.

“This is not the article for The Friends of English Magic. It is a review of Portishead’s book.”

Arabella frowned. “But you cannot review a book which you yourself helped write.”

“I believe I might. Under certain circumstances.”

“Indeed! And what circumstances are those?”

“If I say it is an abominable book, a wicked fraud perpetrated upon the British public.”

Arabella stared at him. “Jonathan!” she said at last.

“Well, it is an abominable book.”

He handed her the sheaf of papers and she began to read them. The mantelpiece clock struck nine and Jeremy brought in the tea-things. When she had finished, she sighed. “What are you going to do?”

“I do not know. Publish it, I suppose.”

“But what of poor Lord Portishead? If he has written things in his book that are wrong, then of course someone ought to say so. But you know very well that he only wrote them because you told him to. He will feel himself very ill used.”

“Oh, quite! It is a wretched business from start to finish,” said Strange unconcernedly. He sipped his tea and ate a piece of toast. “But that is not the point. Ought I to allow my regard for Portishead to prevent me from saying what I think is true? I do not think so. Do you?”

“But must it be you?” said Arabella with a miserable look. “Poor man, he will feel it so much more coming from you.”

Strange frowned. “Of course it must be me. Who else is there? But, come. I promise you I will make him a very handsome apology just as soon as the occasion arises.”

And with that Arabella was obliged to be content.

In the meantime Strange considered where he should send his review. His choice fell upon Mr Jeffrey, the editor of The Edinburgh Review in Scotland. The Edinburgh Review, it may be remembered, was a radical publication in favour of political reform, emancipation of Catholics and Jews, and all sorts of other things Mr Norrell did not approve. As a consequence, in recent years Mr Jeffrey had seen reviews and articles upon the Revival of English Magic appear in rival publications, while he, poor fellow, had none. Naturally he was delighted to receive Strange’s review. He was not in the least concerned about its astonishing and revolutionary content, since that was the sort of thing that he liked best. He wrote Strange a letter immediately, assuring him that he would publish it as soon as possible, and a couple of days later he sent Strange a haggis (a sort of Scotch pudding) as a present.