ear to be
altogether unconnected with his beloved stage--at a no inconsiderable
yearly loss. It could give me little fame and less wealth. But a crust
is a feast to a man who has grown weary of dreaming dinners, and as I
sat with that letter in my hand a mist rose before my eyes, and I--acted
in a way that would read foolish if written down.

[Illustration: THE STUDY

(_From a photograph by Fradelle & Young_)]

The next morning, at eleven, I stood beneath the porch of 37 Victoria
Road, Kensington, wishing I did not feel so hot and nervous, and that I
had not pulled the bell-rope quite so vigorously. But when Mr. Gowing,
in smoking-coat and slippers, came forward and shook me by the hand, my
shyness left me. In his study, lined with theatrical books, we sat and
talked. Mr. Gowing's voice seemed the sweetest I had ever listened to,
for, with unprofessional frankness, it sang the praises of my work. He,
in his young acting days, had been through the provincial mill, and
found my pictures true, and many of my pages seemed to him, so he said,
'as good as _Punch_.' (He meant it complimentary.) He explained to me
the position of his paper, and I agreed (only too gladly) to give him
the use of the book for nothing. As I was leaving, however, he called me
back and slipped a five-pound note into my hand--a different price from
what friend A. P. Watt charms out of proprietors' pockets for me
nowadays, yet never since have I felt as rich as on that foggy November
morning when I walked across Kensington Gardens with that 'bit of
flimsy' held tight in my left hand. I could not bear the idea of
spending it on mere mundane things. Now and then, during the long days
of apprenticeship, I drew it from its hiding-place and looked at it,
sorely tempted. But it always went back, and later, when the luck began
to turn, I purchased with it, at a second-hand shop in Goodge Street, an
old Dutch bureau that I had long had my eye upon. It is an inconvenient
piece of furniture. One cannot stretch one's legs as one sits writing at
it, and if one rises suddenly it knocks bad language into one's knees
and out of one's mouth. But one must pay for sentiment, as for other
things.

In _The Play_ the papers gained a fair amount of notice, and won for me
some kindly words; notably, I remember, from John Clayton and Palgrave
Simpson. I thought that in the glory of print they would readily find a
publisher, but I was mistaken. The same weary work lay befo