ceiving that he was in earnest, refrained from
comment.

And after they had gone to bed he took _Love in Babylon_ out of the
brown paper in which he had wrapped it, and folded the brown paper and
tied up the string; and he was in the very act of putting _Love in
Babylon_ bodily on the fire, when he paused.

'Suppose I give it one more chance?' he reflected.

He had suddenly thought of the name of Mr. Onions Winter, and of Mr.
Snyder's interrupted observations upon that publisher. He decided to
send _Love in Babylon_ to Mr. Winter. He untied the string, unfolded the
brown paper, indited a brief letter, and made the parcel anew.

A week later, only a week, Mr. Onions Winter wrote asking Henry to call
upon him without delay, and Henry called. The establishment of Mr.
Onions Winter was in Leicester Square, between the Ottoman Music Hall
and a milliner's shop. Architecturally it presented rather a peculiar
appearance. The leading feature of the ground-floor was a vast arch,
extending across the entire frontage in something more than a
semicircle. Projecting from the keystone of the arch was a wrought-iron
sign bearing a portrait in copper, and under the portrait the words 'Ye
Shakspere Head.' Away beneath the arch was concealed the shop-window, an
affair of small square panes, and in the middle of every small pane was
stuck a small card, 'The Satin Library--Onions Winter.' This mystic
phrase was repeated a hundred and sixty-five times. To the right of the
window was a low green door with a copper handle in the shape of a
sow's tail, and the legend 'Ye Office of Onions Winter.'

'Is Mr. Winter in?' Henry demanded of a young man in a very high collar,
after he had mastered the mechanism of the sow's tail.

'Yes, he's _in_,' said the young man rudely, as Henry thought. (How
different from Goldenhair was this high collar!)

'Do you want to see him?' asked the young man, when he had hummed an air
and stared out of the window.

'No,' said Henry placidly. 'But he wants to see me. My name is Knight.'

Henry had these flashes of brilliance from time to time. They came of
themselves, as _Love in Babylon_ came. He felt that he was beginning
better with Mr. Onions Winter than he had begun with Mr. Mark Snyder.

In another moment he was seated opposite Mr. Winter in a charming but
littered apartment on the first-floor. He came to the conclusion that
all literary offices must be drawing-rooms.

'And so you are the author of _L