[Editorial] bird-like -> birdlike

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@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>“True.”</p>
 			<p>“Both of them as powerful as sex. What are the Professor’s famous Censors but forbidding suggestions from the herd without, made powerful and entrenched by the social instinct within?”</p>
 			<p>Gumbril had no answer; <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero continued, smiling:</p>
-			<p>“So that we shall be all right if we stick to self-preservation and the herd. Rub in the comfort and the utility, the hygienic virtues of our Small-Clothes; that will catch their self-preservatory feelings. Aim at their dread of public opinion, at their ambition to be one better than their fellows and their terror of being different⁠—at all the ludicrous weaknesses a well-developed social instinct exposes them to. We shall get them, if we set to work scientifically.” <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero’s bird-like eyes twinkled very brightly. “We shall get them,” he repeated, and he laughed a happy little laugh, full of such a childlike diabolism, such an innocent gay malignity that it seemed as though a little leprechaun had suddenly taken the financier’s place in Gumbril’s best armchair.</p>
+			<p>“So that we shall be all right if we stick to self-preservation and the herd. Rub in the comfort and the utility, the hygienic virtues of our Small-Clothes; that will catch their self-preservatory feelings. Aim at their dread of public opinion, at their ambition to be one better than their fellows and their terror of being different⁠—at all the ludicrous weaknesses a well-developed social instinct exposes them to. We shall get them, if we set to work scientifically.” <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero’s birdlike eyes twinkled very brightly. “We shall get them,” he repeated, and he laughed a happy little laugh, full of such a childlike diabolism, such an innocent gay malignity that it seemed as though a little leprechaun had suddenly taken the financier’s place in Gumbril’s best armchair.</p>
 			<p>Gumbril laughed too; for this leprechaunish mirth was infectious. “We shall get them,” he echoed. “Oh, I’m sure we shall, if you set about it, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero.”</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero acknowledged the compliment with a smile that expressed no false humility. It was his due, and he knew it.</p>
 			<p>“I’ll give you some of my ideas about the advertising campaign,” he said. “Just to give you a notion. You can think them over, quietly, and make suggestions.”</p>
@@ -86,7 +86,7 @@
 			<p>“Does it?” The Complete Man laughed with a significant joviality.</p>
 			<p>“Won’t you take off your coat?”</p>
 			<p>“No, thanks,” said Gumbril. “I’ll keep it on.”</p>
-			<p>“Well,” said the leprechaun, leaning back in his chair and twinkling, bird-like, across the table.</p>
+			<p>“Well,” said the leprechaun, leaning back in his chair and twinkling, birdlike, across the table.</p>
 			<p>“Well,” repeated Gumbril on a different tone from behind the stooks of his corn-like beard. He smiled, feeling serenely strong and safe.</p>
 			<p>“I’m sorry we should have disagreed,” said <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero.</p>
 			<p>“So am I,” the Complete Man replied. “But we shan’t disagree for long,” he added, with significance; and as he spoke the words he brought down his fist with such a bang, that the inkpots on <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero’s very solid mahogany writing-table trembled and the pens danced, while <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero himself started with a genuine alarm. He had not expected them. And now he came to look at him more closely, this young Gumbril was a great, hulking, dangerous-looking fellow. He had thought he would be easy to manage. How could he have made such a mistake?</p>

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@@ -45,14 +45,14 @@
 			</blockquote>
 			<p>Yes, it was my <i xml:lang="it">basso ingegno</i>: my low genius which did not know how to draw love from you, nor beauty from the materials of which art is made. Ah, now you’ll smile to yourself and say: Poor Casimir, he has come to admit that at last? Yes, yes, I have come to admit everything. That I couldn’t paint, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t make music. That I was a charlatan and a quack. That I was a ridiculous actor of heroic parts who deserved to be laughed at⁠—and <em>was</em> laughed at. But then every man is ludicrous if you look at him from outside, without taking into account what’s going on in his heart and mind. You could turn Hamlet into an epigrammatic farce with an inimitable scene when he takes his adored mother in adultery. You could make the wittiest Guy de Maupassant short story out of the life of Christ, by contrasting the mad rabbi’s pretensions with his abject fate. It’s a question of the point of view. Everyone’s a walking farce and a walking tragedy at the same time. The man who slips on a banana-skin and fractures his skull describes against the sky, as he falls, the most richly comical arabesque. And you, Myra⁠—what do you suppose the unsympathetic gossips say of you? What sort of a farce of the Boulevards is your life in their eyes? For me, Myra, you seem to move all the time through some nameless and incomprehensible tragedy. For them you are what? Merely any sort of a wanton, with amusing adventures. And what am I? A charlatan, a quack, a pretentious, boasting, rhodomontading imbecile, incapable of painting anything but vermouth posters. (Why did that hurt so terribly? I don’t know. There was no reason why you shouldn’t think so if you wanted to.) I was all that⁠—and grotesquely laughable. And very likely your laughter was justified, your judgment was true. I don’t know. I can’t tell. Perhaps I am a charlatan. Perhaps I’m insincere; boasting to others, deceiving myself. I don’t know, I tell you. Everything is confusion in my mind now. The whole fabric seems to have tumbled to pieces; it lies in a horrible chaos. I can make no order within myself. Have I lied to myself? have I acted and postured the Great Man to persuade myself that I am one? have I something in me, or nothing? have I ever achieved anything of worth, anything that rhymed with my conceptions, my dreams (for those were fine; of that, I <em>am</em> certain)? I look into the chaos that is my soul and, I tell you, I don’t know, I don’t know. But what I do know is that I’ve spent nearly twenty years now playing the charlatan at whom you all laugh. That I’ve suffered, in mind and in body too⁠—almost from hunger, sometimes⁠—in order to play it. That I’ve struggled, that I’ve exultantly climbed to the attack, that I’ve been thrown down⁠—ah, many times!⁠—that I’ve picked myself up and started again. Well, I suppose all that’s ludicrous, if you like to think of it that way. It is ludicrous that a man should put himself to prolonged inconvenience for the sake of something which doesn’t really exist at all. It’s exquisitely comic, I can see. I can see it in the abstract, so to speak. But in this particular case, you must remember I’m not a dispassionate observer. And if I am overcome now, it is not with laughter. It is with an indescribable unhappiness, with the bitterness of death itself. Death, death, death. I repeat the word to myself, again and again. I think of death, I try to imagine it, I hang over it, looking down, where the stones fall and fall and there is one horrible noise, and then silence again; looking down into the well of death. It is so deep that there is no glittering eye of water to be seen at the bottom. I have no candle to send down. It is horrible, but I do not want to go on living. Living would be worse than.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
 			<p>Lypiatt was reaching out for another sheet of paper when he was startled to hear the sound of feet on the stairs. He turned towards the door. His heart beat with violence. He was filled with a strange sense of apprehension. In terror he awaited the approach of some unknown and terrible being. The feet of the angel of death were on the stairs. Up, up, up. Lypiatt felt himself trembling as the sound came nearer. He knew for certain that in a few seconds he was going to die. The hangmen had already pinioned him; the soldiers of the firing squad had already raised their rifles. One, two,⁠ ⁠… he thought of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Viveash standing, bareheaded, the wind blowing in her hair, at the foot of the flagstaff from the site of which Queen Victoria had admired the distant view of Selborne; he thought of her dolorously smiling; he remembered that once she had taken his head between her two hands and kissed him: “Because you’re such a golden ass,” she had said, laughing. Three.⁠ ⁠… There was a little tap at the door. Lypiatt pressed his hand over his heart. The door opened.</p>
-			<p>A small, bird-like man with a long, sharp nose and eyes as round and black and shining as buttons stepped into the room.</p>
+			<p>A small, birdlike man with a long, sharp nose and eyes as round and black and shining as buttons stepped into the room.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Lydgate, I presume?” he began. Then looked at a card on which a name and address were evidently written. “Lypiatt, I mean. A thousand pardons. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Lypiatt, I presume?”</p>
 			<p>Lypiatt leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. His face was as white as paper. He breathed hard and his temples were wet with sweat, as though he had been running.</p>
 			<p>“I found the door down below open, so I came straight up. I hope you’ll excuse.⁠ ⁠…” The stranger smiled apologetically.</p>
 			<p>“Who are you?” Lypiatt asked, reopening his eyes. His heart was still beating hard; after the storm it calmed itself slowly. He drew back from the brink of the fearful well; the time had not yet come to plunge.</p>
 			<p>“My name,” said the stranger, “is Boldero, Herbert Boldero. Our mutual friend <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gumbril, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore Gumbril, junior,” he made it more precise, “suggested that I might come and see you about a little matter in which he and I are interested and in which perhaps you, too, might be interested.”</p>
 			<p>Lypiatt nodded, without saying anything.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero, meanwhile, was turning his bright, bird-like eyes about the studio. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Viveash’s portrait, all but finished now, was clamped to the easel. He approached it, a connoisseur.</p>
+			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero, meanwhile, was turning his bright, birdlike eyes about the studio. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Viveash’s portrait, all but finished now, was clamped to the easel. He approached it, a connoisseur.</p>
 			<p>“It reminds me very much,” he said, “of Bacosso. Very much indeed, if I may say so. Also a little of⁠ ⁠…” he hesitated, trying to think of the name of that other fellow Gumbril had talked about. But being unable to remember the unimpressive syllables of Derain he played for safety and said⁠—“of Orpen.” <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero looked inquiringly at Lypiatt to see if that was right.</p>
 			<p>Lypiatt still spoke no word and seemed, indeed, not to have heard what had been said.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Boldero saw that it wasn’t much good talking about modern art. This chap, he thought, looked as though something were wrong with him. He hoped he hadn’t got influenza. There was a lot of the disease about. “This little affair I was speaking of,” he pursued, in another tone, “is a little business proposition that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gumbril and I have gone into together. A matter of pneumatic trousers,” he waved his hand airily.</p>