“Suppose—suppose it should fail like all the rest.” And then the pain was like a ragged knife. She would walk across the little sitting-room, back and forwards, back and forwards. “No, no, it can’t. It’s all too real and true to me to ever fail. If it fails it’ll nearly kill me. I can’t write anything better. I never shall, however hard I try.” So, because she dared not, she never thought of failure. As the last chapters drew to an end, there arose that most anxious question to the uninitiated—“Where must I send it?” Editors she had tried till she had sickened of the process; besides, it was longer than the usual MSS. sent, and not quite suitable for a serial story. So she began to look round for a publisher, and picked out one at random—one of whom she had never before heard; for of the business part of literature she was deplorably ignorant. Next she decided, or thought she herself decided, to take it up to town. That was a very unusual kind of thing for her to do, as she was very nervous of strangers and strange places; but it showed what a desperate state she had come to when she even determined to brave such a very great man as a publisher. “I’ll just ask him if he’d mind reading it through carefully, because when stories are sent by post I don’t believe they ever look at them. Perhaps if I did take the trouble to go myself they would look at a chapter or two. And after that I think they’d understand.” In the meantime she had sent the manuscript to be typewritten; but she had given the typewriters rather short notice, and they were very busy, and by the time the day arrived for her to go up to town a few of the chapters were still missing. She had made up her mind to go on a certain Saturday, but was delayed on account of the slowness of the typewriters till the following Thursday, when she went either from impatience or from a stronger impulse, which she did not understand, for some of the chapters were missing still. * * * * * Ah, Deborah! little do you foresee the terrible journey before you on which your eager young heart is urging you—the horrible, treacherous pitfalls, the cruel rocks, the wild, lonesome moors and wastes, the vale of agony and humiliation, the sombre, silent forest of failure and despair! * * * * * “And so,” said Plucritus to Genius, “and so the time is drawing near for the fulfilment of the curse?” “The removal you mean.” “I mean what I say. Can you seriously imagine that a book so full of crudities and absurdities might be successful?” “Why, yes. The world is so full of common sense and wisdom that we can afford to be magnanimous.” “And you intend to carry it through to the end?” “Yes—to the bitter end.” “That is a very apt expression—it implies so much, though frequent use has made it commonplace. For all that you do not expect there will be any bitter end; you expect this to go through fairly easily.”