MY DEAR CLOYSTER,—The divergence of our duties and pleasures during your residence here caused us to see but little of each other. Would it had been otherwise! And too often our intercourse had—on my side—a distinctly professional flavour. Your attitude towards your religious obligations was, I fear, something to seek. Indeed, the line, “_Pastor deorum cultor et infrequens_,” might have been directly inspired by your views on the keeping of Chapels. On the other hand, your contributions to our musical festivities had the true Aristophanes _panache_. I hear you are devoting yourself to literature, and I beg that you will avail yourself of the enclosed note, which is addressed to a personal friend of mine. Believe me, _Your well-wisher, David Ossian Macrae._ The enclosure bore this inscription: CHARLES FERMIN, ESQ., Offices of the _Orb_, Strand, London. I had received the letter at breakfast. I took a cab, and drove straight to the _Orb_. A painted hand, marked “Editorial,” indicated a flight of stairs. At the top of these I was confronted by a glass door, beyond which, entrenched behind a desk, sat a cynical-looking youth. A smaller boy in the background talked into a telephone. Both were giggling. On seeing me the slightly larger of the two advanced with a half-hearted attempt at solemnity, though unable to resist a Parthian shaft at his companion, who was seized on the instant with a paroxysm of suppressed hysteria. My letter was taken down a mysterious stone passage. After some waiting the messenger returned with the request that I would come back at eleven, as Mr. Fermin would be very busy till then. I went out into the Strand, and sought a neighbouring hostelry. It was essential that I should be brilliant at the coming interview, if only spirituously brilliant; and I wished to remove a sensation of stomachic emptiness, such as I had been wont to feel at school when approaching the headmaster’s study. At eleven I returned, and asked again for Mr. Fermin; and presently he appeared—a tall, thin man, who gave one the impression of being in a hurry. I knew him by reputation as a famous quarter-miler. He had been president of the O.U.A.C. some years back. He looked as if at any moment he might dash off in any direction at quarter-mile pace. We shook hands, and I tried to look intelligent. “Sorry to have to keep you waiting,” he said, as we walked to his club; “but we are always rather busy between ten and eleven, putting the column through. Gresham and I do ‘On Your Way,’ you know. The last copy has to be down by half-past ten.” We arrived at the Club, and sat in a corner of the lower smoking-room. “Macrae says that you are going in for writing. Of course, I’ll do anything I can, but it isn’t easy to help a man. As it happens, though, I can put you in the way of something, if it’s your style of work. Do you ever do verse?” I felt like a batsman who sees a slow full-toss sailing through the air.