delight, but I was not dead set on
possessing myself of her handkerchief that I might kiss in private. I
had one portrait of her--that was all--and that I rarely looked at.

The first thing I did in Paris was to find a translator for Howard's
poem, which, after a time, appeared in one of the literary papers in
its French dress, and returned to its original title. He came to me
suddenly one evening with a contemporary paper in his hand, and the
flush of gratified talent, and the pride that is its first cousin,
kindling in his face.

"Look here, Vic!" he said; "isn't this first-class? Here's a critique
on my verses, and just see how they crack them up!"

I took the paper and read the paragraph, Howard leaning over my
shoulder and resting his knee on the arm of my chair. When I had
finished I looked up at him.

"Not a word more than it deserves, old man!" I said. "Now you realise,
don't you, what you can be and do if you choose!"

"Yes. Well, really, if all that's true, I ought to make some sort of a
name some day, eh?"

And for a time it seemed that a lasting impression had been made upon
him. He seemed to feel that elation and enthusiasm stir in him which
makes it a joy to the genius to renounce all for his work. With regard
to my own manuscripts, I sent some of them, in English, to one of the
French publishing firms, and there ensued a blank of three weeks. At
the end of that time I received a peremptory note inviting me to call
at their office. When I presented myself I was shown into a bare,
square room, where an august little man was standing, using a silver
toothpick. He was short, with a large-sized lower chest; bald, with a
short, grey beard cut to a sharp point; waxed moustache ends, sticking
out ferociously; and brown eyes, keen with intelligence. He bowed
elaborately.

I could speak French, he supposed.

I assented, and the conversation then went on very fast.

Monsieur's works had been read by their Anglo-French reader and highly
approved. There was no doubt that Monsieur possessed a talent, a talent
that he would say was--colossal. At the same time, these works were all
too English in tone to catch the taste of the Parisian world, and
Monsieur had seemed to put a restraint upon his pen, that rendered his
works a touch too cold.

Great heavens! how I raised my eyebrows at that; remembering that in
England I had been always rejected on account of being too warm.

Now, his proposition was this:--I