o newspaper, from magazine to magazine, returning always
soiled and limp to Whitfield Street, still further darkening the ill-lit
room as he entered. Some would keep him for a month, making me indignant
at the waste of precious time. Others would send him back by the next
post, insulting me by their indecent haste. Many, in returning him,
would thank me for having given them the privilege and pleasure of
reading him, and I would curse them for hypocrites. Others would reject
him with no pretence at regret whatever, and I would marvel at their
rudeness.

I hated the dismal little 'slavey' who, twice a week, on an average,
would bring him up to me. If she smiled as she handed me the packet, I
fancied she was jeering at me. If she looked sad, as she more often did,
poor little over-worked slut, I thought she was pitying me. I shunned
the postman if I saw him in the street, sure that he guessed my shame.

'Did anyone ever read you out of all those I sent you to?' I ask him.

'Do editors read manuscript by unknown authors?' he asks me in return.

'I fear not more than they can help,' I confess; 'they would have little
else to do.'

'Oh,' he remarks demurely, 'I thought I had read that they did.'

'Very likely,' I reply; 'I have also read that theatrical managers read
all the plays sent to them, eager to discover new talent. One obtains
much curious information by reading.'

[Illustration: I HATED THE DISMAL LITTLE 'SLAVEY']

'But somebody did read me eventually,' he reminds me; 'and liked me.
Give credit where credit is due.'

'Ah, yes,' I admit; 'my good friend Aylmer Gowing--the "Walter Gordon"
of the old Haymarket in Buckstone's time, "Gentleman Gordon" as Charles
Matthews nicknamed him--kindliest and most genial of men. Shall I ever
forget the brief note that came to me four days after I had posted you
to "The Editor--_Play_":--"Dear Sir, I like your articles very much. Can
you call on me to-morrow morning before twelve?--Yours truly, W. AYLMER
GOWING."'

So success had come at last--not the glorious goddess I had pictured,
but a quiet, pleasant-faced lady. I had imagined the editor of
_Cornhill_, or the _Nineteenth Century_, or _The Illustrated London
News_ writing me that my manuscript was the most brilliant, witty, and
powerful story he had ever read, and enclosing me a cheque for two
hundred guineas. _The Play_ was an almost unknown little penny weekly,
'run' by Mr. Gowing--who, though retired, could not b