intimations of greatness

Strolling through the fields of evening.
Paddy Pup is mooching along beside me contentedly enough.
The ghost of CS Lewis appears.
He seems anxious to talk.
"You know James," he says, "some of us who seem quite nice people may in fact have made so little use of a good heredity and a good upbringing that we are really worse than those we regard as fiends."
I nod grimly.
"You mean my writings about Muslim terrorists," sez I.
CS takes a step backwards.
"Actually I was referring to the Johnston Press," sez he.