youthful
extravagances, and it aimed to depict London society, of which I knew
nothing whatever, with a flippant and cynical pen. Oakley and Dalbiac had
kept silence for several months, and had then stated, in an extremely
formal epistle, that they thought the book might have some chance of
success, and that they would be prepared to publish it on certain terms,
but that I must not expect, etc. By that time I had lost my original
sublime faith in the exceeding excellence of my story, and I replied that
I preferred to withdraw the book. To this letter I had received no
answer. When I saw the famous sign over a doorway the impulse seized me
to enter and get the manuscript, with the object of rewriting it. Soon, I
reflected, I might not be able to enter; the portals of mankind might be
barred to me for a space.... I saw in a flash of insight that my
salvation lay in work, and in nothing else. I entered, resolutely. A
brougham was waiting at the doors.

After passing along counters furnished with ledgers and clerks, through a
long, lofty room lined with great pigeon-holes containing thousands of
books each wrapped separately in white paper, I was shown into what the
clerk who acted as chamberlain called the office of the principal. This
room, too, was spacious, but so sombre that the electric light was
already burning. The first thing I noticed was that the window gave on a
wall of white tiles. In the middle of the somewhat dingy apartment was a
vast, square table, and at this table sat a pale, tall man, whose youth
astonished me--for the firm of Oakley and Dalbiac was historic.

He did not look up exactly at the instant of my entering, but when he did
look up, when he saw me, he stared for an instant, and then sprang from
his chair as though magically startled into activity. His age was about
thirty, and he had large, dark eyes, and a slight, dark moustache, and
his face generally was interesting; he wore a dark gray suit. I was
nervous, but he was even more nervous; yet in the moment of looking up he
had not seemed nervous. He could not do enough, apparently, to make me
feel at ease, and to show his appreciation of me and my work. He spoke
enthusiastically of _The Jest_, begging me neither to suppress it nor to
alter it. And, without the least suggestion from me, he offered me a
considerable sum of money in advance of royalties. At that time I
scarcely knew what royalties were. But although my ignorance of business
was c