hould never use again--the bed
that, indeed, was even then the property of a furniture dealer. Had I
wept at all, I should have wept as I wrote out the labels for my trunks:
'Miss Peel, passenger to Golden Cross Hotel, London. Euston via Rugby,'
with two thick lines drawn under the 'Euston.' That writing of labels was
the climax. With a desperate effort I tore myself up by the roots, and
all bleeding I left the Five Towns. I have never seen them since. Some
day, when I shall have attained serenity and peace, when the battle has
been fought and lost, I will revisit my youth. I have always loved
passionately the disfigured hills and valleys of the Five Towns. And as I
think of Oldcastle Street, dropping away sleepily and respectably from
the Town Hall of Bursley, with the gold angel holding a gold crown on its
spire, I vibrate with an inexplicable emotion. What is there in Oldcastle
Street to disturb the dust of the soul?

I must tell you here that Diaz had gone to South America on a triumphal
tour of concerts, lest I forget! I read it in the paper.

So I arrived in London on a February day, about one o'clock. And the
hall-porter at the Golden Cross Hotel, and the two pale girls in the
bureau of the hotel, were sympathetic and sweet to me, because I was
young and alone, and in mourning, and because I had great rings round my
eyes. It was a fine day, blue and mild. At half-past three I had nothing
in the world to do. I had come to London without a plan, without a
purpose, with scarcely an introduction; I wished simply to plunge myself
into its solitude, and to be alone with my secret fear. I walked out into
the street, slowly, like one whom ennui has taught to lose no chance of
dissipating time. I neither liked nor disliked London. I had no feelings
towards it save one of perplexity. I thought it noisy, dirty, and
hurried. Its great name roused no thrill in my bosom. On the morrow, I
said, I would seek a lodging, and perhaps write to Ethel Ryley.
Meanwhile I strolled up into Trafalgar Square, and so into Charing Cross
Road. And in Charing Cross Road--it was the curst accident of fate--I saw
the signboard of the celebrated old firm of publishers, Oakley and
Dalbiac. It is my intention to speak of my books as little as possible in
this history. I must, however, explain that six months before my aunt's
death I had already written my first novel, _The Jest_, and sent it to
precisely Oakley and Dalbiac. It was a wild welter of