Towards the end of that week I had invited my friend the editor to take a mid-day chop with me. He had put my name down as a candidate for admission into a literary club which I was anxious to join, and there was a difficulty in regard to my qualification. Had the articles I wrote for his paper been signed with my name, there would have been no question as to my being properly qualified, but they had been published anonymously, and I was personally unknown to the members. My proposer had vouched for me and had passed his word, but it was not deemed sufficient; they wanted proof positive, and this nettled him. Certain members of this committee had spoken to him privately, and had advised him to withdraw his candidate, but he had set his heart upon the matter, and was determined to carry me through. He held an influential position in the club, and it seemed to him that his influence would be weakened if he beat a retreat. And now on this day he came to tell me that the difficulty was at an end. "Somehow or other," he said, "it has leaked out that you are the writer of those articles, and your election is assured. The committee meet in a fortnight, and the vote will be unanimous." I was greatly disturbed. It had been my earnest desire to keep my name from being associated with the exposures I had made. Had I been unmarried and free, it would have been my pride that the world should know and give me my meed of praise, but married to Barbara, and with the curse of drink in my own home, I shrank from public gaze. A foreboding of evil stole upon me. "The fellows are wild to meet you," continued my friend, "and every member of the committee has promised a white ball. This has set my mind at ease about you, for it is a serious matter being pilled in such a club. I know a case or two where a black ball has meant social death. I should have felt it more than you. You see, I am your sponsor. 'What do you say now to my candidate being qualified?' I said to two members who were dead against you on the score of your being a stranger. A man crept in once, and we discovered he was a blackleg. He gave us a chance, and we expelled him. Since then a strict watch has been kept upon candidates. Before it leaked out who you really were, they wanted to know whether you were a gentleman, a man of honor and good character, one it would be agreeable to mix with--what we call a clubbable man. They have no doubts now. You will be cordially welcomed by a band of as good fellows as can be met with in London, and you may look upon yourself as one of the inner circle." "I am sorry my anonymity as a writer is destroyed," I said, speaking with reserve. "It lessens the value of one's work."