ve and benign
sulphur smouldering, smouldering always with ghostly yellow flamelets in
the midst of his work of art, while the old year died and the new was
born.

CHAPTER IX

SPRING ONIONS

The return to the world and to Powells, while partaking of the nature of
a triumph, was at the same time something of a cold, fume-dispersing,
commonsense-bestowing bath for Henry. He had meant to tell Sir George
casually that he had taken advantage of his enforced leisure to write a
book. 'Taken advantage of his enforced leisure' was the precise phrase
which Henry had in mind to use. But, when he found himself in the
strenuous, stern, staid, sapient and rational atmosphere of Powells, he
felt with a shock of perception that in rattling off _Love in Babylon_
he had been guilty of one of those charming weaknesses to which great
and serious men are sometimes tempted, but of which great and serious
men never boast. And he therefore confined his personal gossip with Sir
George to the turkey, the mince-tarts, and the question of contagion. He
plunged into his work with a feeling akin to dignified remorse, and Sir
George was vehemently and openly delighted by the proofs which he gave
of undiminished loyalty and devotion.

Nevertheless Henry continued to believe in the excellence of his book,
and he determined that, in duty to himself, his mother and aunt, and the
cause of wholesome fiction, he must try to get it published. From that
moment he began to be worried, for he had scarcely a notion how
sagaciously to set about the business. He felt like a bachelor of
pronounced views who has been given a baby to hold. He knew no one in
the realms of literature, and no one who knew anyone. Sir George, warily
sounded, appeared to be unaware that such a thing as fiction existed.
Not a soul at the Polytechnic enjoyed the acquaintance of either an
author or a publisher, though various souls had theories about these
classes of persons. Then one day a new edition of the works of Carlyle
burst on the world, and Henry bought the first volume, _Sartor
Resartus_, a book which he much admired, and which he had learnt from
his father to call simply and familiarly--_Sartor_. The edition, though
inexpensive, had a great air of dignity. It met, in short, with Henry's
approval, and he suddenly decided to give the publishers of it the
opportunity of publishing _Love in Babylon_. The deed was done in a
moment. He wrote a letter explaining the motives