“Shall we sit down, sir?” said Strange. He moved towards a chair and Mr Norrell flinched at the suddenness of the movement. It was almost as if he were expecting Strange to hit him. The next moment, however, he had recovered himself enough to sit down.

Strange was not much more comfortable. In the last few days he had asked himself over and over again if he had been right to publish the review, and repeatedly he had come to the conclusion that he had been. He had decided that the correct attitude to take was one of dignified moral superiority softened by a very moderate amount of apology. But now that he was actually sitting in Mr Norrell’s library again, he did not find it easy to meet his tutor’s eye. His gaze fixed itself upon an odd succession of objects – a small porcelain figure of Dr Martin Pale; the doorknob; his own thumbnail; Mr Norrell’s left shoe.

Mr Norrell, on the other hand, never once took his eyes from Strange’s face.

After several moments’ silence both men spoke at once.

“After all your kindness to me …” began Strange.

“You think that I am angry,” began Mr Norrell.

Both paused and then Strange indicated that Mr Norrell should continue.

“You think that I am angry,” said Mr Norrell, “but I am not. You think I do not know why you have done what you have done, but I do. You think you have put all your heart into that writing and that every one in England now understands you. What do they understand? Nothing. I understood you before you wrote a word.” He paused and his face worked as if he were struggling to say something that lay very deep inside him. “What you wrote, you wrote for me. For me alone.”

Strange opened his mouth to protest at this surprizing conclusion. But upon consideration he realized it was probably true. He was silent.

Mr Norrell continued. “Do you really believe that I have never felt the same … the same longing you feel? It is John Uskglass’s magic that we do. Of course it is. What else should it be? I tell you, there were times when I was young when I would have done any thing, endured any thing, to find him and throw myself at his feet. I tried to conjure him up – Ha! That was the act of a very young, very foolish man – to treat a king like a footman and summon him to come and talk to me. I consider it one of the most fortunate circumstances of my life that I was unsuccessful! Then I tried to find him using the old spells of election. I could not even make the spells work. All the magic of my youth was wasted in trying to find him. For ten years I thought of nothing else.”

“You never said any of this before, sir.”

Mr Norrell sighed. “I wished to prevent you from falling into my error.” He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.