But, prior to that, Mrs. St. Quinten had explained to me the programme which had now been settled between the party. We were not to meet again till that day fortnight, and then each of us was to come provided with matter that would fill twenty-one printed pages of the magazine. This, with the title-page, would comprise the whole first number. We might all do as we liked with our own pages,--each within his allotted space,--filling the whole with one essay, or dividing it into two or three short papers. In this way there might be scope for Pat Regan’s verse, or for any little badinage in which Jack Hallam might wish to express himself. And in order to facilitate our work, and for the sake of general accommodation, a page or two might be lent or borrowed. “Whatever anybody writes then,” I asked, “must be admitted?” Mrs. St. Quinten explained to me that this had not been their decision. The whole matter produced was of course to be read,--each contributor’s paper by the contributor himself, and it was to be printed and inserted in the first number, if any three would vote for its insertion. On this occasion the author, of course, would have no vote. The votes were to be handed in, written on slips of paper, so that there might be no priority in voting,--so that no one should be required to express himself before or after his neighbour. It was very complex, but I made no objection. As I walked home alone,--for I had no spirits to join Regan and Jack Hallam, who went in search of supper at the Haymarket,--I turned over Smith’s words in my mind, and resolved that I would be humble, patient, and persevering,--so that something might be done, though it were, as he said, ever so little. I would struggle still. Though everything was to be managed in a manner adverse to my own ideas and wishes, I would still struggle. I would still hope that the “Panjandrum” might become a great fact in the literature of my country. [Illustration] [Illustration] PART II.--DESPAIR.