ews, some of which he knew
were to appear on the day of publication itself. A hundred copies of _A
Question of Cubits_ had been sent out for review, and in his dreams he
saw a hundred highly-educated men, who had given their lives to the
study of fiction, bending anxiously over the tome and seeking with
conscientious care the precise phrases in which most accurately to
express their expert appreciation of it. He dreamt much of the reviewer
of the _Daily Tribune_, his favourite morning paper, whom he pictured as
a man of forty-five or so, with gold-rimmed spectacles and an air of
generous enthusiasm. He hoped great things from the article in the
_Daily Tribune_ (which, by a strange accident, had completely ignored
_Love in Babylon_), and when he arose in the morning (he had been lying
awake a long time waiting to hear the scamper of the newsboy on the
steps) he discovered that his hopes were happily realized. The _Daily
Tribune_ had given nearly a column of praise to _A Question of Cubits_,
had quoted some choice extracts, had drawn special attention to the
wonderful originality of the plot, and asserted that the story was an
advance, 'if an advance were possible,' on the author's previous book.
His mother and Aunt Annie consumed the review at breakfast with an
excellent appetite, and lauded the insight of the critic.

What had happened at the offices of the _Daily Tribune_ was this. At the
very moment when Henry was dreaming of its reviewer--namely, half-past
eleven p.m.--its editor was gesticulating and shouting at the end of a
speaking-tube:

'Haven't had proof of that review of a book called _A Question of
Cubits_, or some such idiotic title! Send it down at once, instantly. Do
you hear? What? Nonsense!'

The editor sprang away from the tube, and dashed into the middle of a
vast mass of papers on his desk, turning them all over, first in heaps,
then singly. He then sprang in succession to various side-tables and
served their contents in the same manner.

'I tell you I sent it up myself before dinner,' he roared into the tube.
'It's Mr. Clackmannan's "copy"--you know that peculiar paper he writes
on. Just look about. Oh, conf----!'

Then the editor rang a bell.

'Send Mr. Heeky to me, quick!' he commanded the messenger-boy.

'I'm just finishing that leaderette,' began Mr. Heeley, when he obeyed
the summons. Mr. Heeley was a young man who had published a book of
verse.

'Never mind the leaderette,' said the e