Kling's was a great chess house, and I was a chess enthusiast, as well as a youth who wanted to get into print. Failing literature, I had made up my mind to become a chess champion, if possible, although I knew already by quiet observation of my antagonists, that in that way madness lay, sheer uncontrollable, raging madness--for me at any rate. And the grave, middle-aged gentleman behind the counter of 13 Great Marlborough Street, proved to be the cashier of the firm, and used--being chess-mad with the rest of us--to spend his evenings at 'Kling's.' He was a player of my own strength, and for twelve months or so had I skirmished with him over the chessboard, and fought innumerable battles with him. He had never spoken of his occupation, nor I of my restless ambitions--chess players never go far beyond the chequered board. [Illustration: ELMORE HOUSE] 'Hallo, Robinson!' he exclaimed in his surprise, 'you don't mean to say that you---- ' And then he stopped and regarded my youthful appearance very critically. 'Yes, Mr. Kenny--it's a novel,' I said modestly; 'my first.' 'There's plenty of it,' he remarked dryly. 'I'll send it upstairs at once. And I'll wish you luck, too; but,' he added, kindly preparing to soften the shock of a future refusal, 'we have plenty of these come in--about seven a day--and most of them go back to their writers again.' [Illustration: AT THIRTY] 'Ye-es, I suppose so,' I answered, with a sigh. For a while, however, I regarded the meeting as a happy augury--a lucky coincidence. I even had the vain, hopeless notion that Mr. Kenny might put in a good word for me, ask for special consideration, out of that kindly feeling which we had for each other, and which chess antagonists have invariably for each other, I am inclined to believe. But though we met three or four times a week, from that day forth not one word concerning the fate of my manuscript escaped the lips of Mr. Kenny. It is probable the incident had passed from his memory; he had nothing to do with the novel department itself, and the delivery of MSS. was a very common everyday proceeding to him. I was too bashful, perhaps too proud, an individual to ask any questions; but every evening that I encountered him I used to wonder 'if he had heard anything,' if any news of the book's fate had reached him, directly or indirectly; occasionally even, as time went on, I was disposed to imagine that he was letting me win the game out of kindness--for he was a gentle, kindly soul always--in order to soften the shock of a disappointment which he knew perfectly well was on its way towards me. [Illustration: MR. ROBINSON'S LIBRARY] [Illustration: THE GARDEN]