Then, one day, one beneficent and adorable day, my brain was visited by a Plot. I had a prevision that I was about to write a truly excellent short story. I took incredible pains to be realistic, stylistic, and all the other _istics_, and the result amazed me. I knew that at last I had accomplished a good thing--I knew by the glow within me, the emotional fatigue, the vista of sweet labour behind me. What moved me to despatch this jewel, this bit of caviare-to-the-general, to the editor of a popular weekly with a circulation of a quarter of a million, I cannot explain. But so I did. The editor returned it with a note to say that he liked the plot, but the style was below his standard. I laughed, and, more happily inspired, sent it to the Yellow Book, where it duly appeared. The Yellow Book was then in apogee. Several fiercely literary papers singled out my beautiful story for especial praise. "By heaven!" I said, "I will write a novel." It was a tremendous resolution. I saw that I could _write_. VI But before continuing the narration of my adventures in fiction, I must proceed a little further in the dusty tracks of journalism. When I had laboured sordidly and for the most part ineffectively as a free-lance for two or three years, I became, with surprising suddenness, the assistant-editor of a ladies' paper. The cause of this splendid metamorphosis was sadly unromantic. I had not bombarded the paper, from the shelter of a pseudonym, with articles of unexampled brilliance. The editor had not invited his mysterious and talented contributor into the editorial sanctum, and there informed him that his exclusive services, at a generous salary, were deemed absolutely essential to the future welfare of the organ which he had hitherto assisted only on occasion. I had never written a line for the paper, nor for any ladies' paper. I obtained the situation by "influence," and that of the grossest kind. All that I personally did was to furnish a list of the newspapers and periodicals to which I had contributed, and some specimens of my printed work. These specimens proved rather more than satisfactory. The editor adored smartness; smartness was the "note" of his paper; and he discovered several varieties of smartness in my productions. At our first interview, and always afterwards, his attitude towards me was full of appreciation and kindness. The post was a good one, a hundred and fifty a year for one whole day and four half-days a week. Yet I was afraid to take it. I was afraid to exchange two hundred a year for a hundred and fifty and half my time, I who ardently wished to be a journalist and to have leisure for the imitation of our lady George Sand! In the end I was hustled into the situation. My cowardice was shameful; but in recording it I am not unconscious of the fact that truth makes for piquancy. "I am sorry to say that I shall have to leave you at Christmas, sir." "Indeed!" exclaimed the lawyer who admired Browning. "How is that?"