which had led him to
write _Love in Babylon_, and remarked that, if the publishers cared for
the story, mutually satisfactory terms might be arranged later; and Aunt
Annie did _Love in Babylon_ up in a neat parcel. Henry was in the very
act of taking the parcel to the post, on his way to town, when Aunt
Annie exclaimed:

'Of course you'll register it?'

He had not thought of doing so, but the advisability of such a step at
once appealed to him.

'Perhaps I'd better,' he said.

'But that only means two pounds if it's lost, doesn't it?' Mrs. Knight
inquired.

Henry nodded and pondered.

'Perhaps I'd better insure it,' he suggested.

'If I were you, I should insure it for a hundred pounds,' said Aunt
Annie positively.

'But that will cost one and a penny,' said Henry, who had all such
details by heart. 'I could insure it for twenty pounds for fivepence.'

'Well, say twenty pounds then,' Aunt Annie agreed, relenting.

So he insured _Love in Babylon_ for twenty pounds and despatched it. In
three weeks it returned like the dove to the ark (but soiled), with a
note to say that, though the publishers' reader regarded it as
promising, the publishers could not give themselves the pleasure of
making an offer for it. Thenceforward Henry and the manuscript suffered
all the usual experiences, and the post-office reaped all the usual
profits. One firm said the story was good, but too short. ('A pitiful
excuse,' thought Henry. 'As if length could affect merit.') Another said
nothing. Another offered to publish it if Henry would pay a hundred
pounds down. (At this point Henry ceased to insure the parcel.) Another
sent it back minus the last leaf, the matter of which Henry had to
reinvent and Aunt Annie to recopy. Another returned it insufficiently
stamped, and there was fourpence to pay. Another kept it four months,
and disgorged it only under threat of a writ; the threat was launched
forth on Powells' formidable notepaper. At length there arrived a day
when even Henry's pertinacity was fatigued, and he forgot, merely
forgot, to send out the parcel again. It was put in a drawer, after a
year of ceaseless adventures, and Mrs. Knight and Aunt Annie discreetly
forbore to mention it. During that year Henry's opinion on his work had
fluctuated. There had been moments, days perhaps, of discouragement,
when he regarded it as drivel, and himself as a fool--in so far, that
is, as he had trafficked with literature. On the other hand,