He opened his bag, which contained writing materials, and he had soon written a note to Mr. Barrett, warmly commending me to the attention of that great man. He made me read it, and I was surprised how well he had summed up my character. He next gave me his own address, which was No. 96 Grosvenor Square—one of the most fashionable residential neighbourhoods in London—and then, hoping that I would dine with him and Mrs. Tupper two nights later, at 8 o’clock, he shook me warmly by the hand, wished me good luck, and left me. I saw his dignified figure steal into the street, and though the general public did not seem to recognise him in his modest attire, I fancy that a policeman or two cast understanding glances at him. No doubt they had seen him before—at royal or other functions. I seemed to be walking on air when I went back to work, for this great man, inspired by nothing but pure goodwill, had, as it were, opened the door of success to me and given me a chance for which thousands and thousands of young professional actors must have sighed in vain. He was hardly the man I should have chosen to know; but now that I did know him, I felt that it must have been a special Providence that had done it. I wished that I could make it up to him and hoped that he would live long enough for me to send him free tickets to see me act. Meantime, I determined to buy all his books, which was the least I could do. But I was brought down to earth rather rudely from these beautiful thoughts, for when I got back to the office, Mr. Blades told me that Mr. Westonshaugh wished to speak to me; and it then transpired that, instead of taking half an hour for my luncheon, according to the rules and regulations of the Apollo, I had been out for two hours and rather more! I was terribly sorry, and felt the right and proper thing was to be quite plain with Mr. Westonshaugh. “I met Mr. Martin Tupper at a bookstall, and he introduced himself and asked me to lunch, sir,” I said. But the Head of the Department did not like this at all, and I was a good deal distressed to find the spirit in which he took it. He seemed pained and startled by what I told him; he even showed a great disinclination to accept my word. “Go back to your work, sir,” he said, in a very stern voice, “and don’t add buffoonery to your other irregularities. I am much disappointed in you, Mr. Corkey.” It was a fearful thing to hear this great and good man misunderstand me so completely. In fact, the blood of shame sprang to my forehead—a thing that had never happened before. And then he made another even more terrible speech. “You look to me very much as if you’d been drinking,” he said. “Have a care, young man; for if there is one thing that will ruin your future more quickly than another, it is that disgusting offense!”