"There's no money in it," the publisher repeated, firmly. "First books are too risky. . . . I should like to publish it." "Well?" I said, and paused. I felt that he had withdrawn within himself in order to ponder upon the chances of this terrible risk. So as not to incommode him with my gaze, I examined the office, which resembled a small drawing-room rather than an office. I saw around me signed portraits of all the roaring lions on the sunny side of Grub Street. "I'll publish it," said the publisher, and I believe he made an honest attempt not to look like a philanthropist; however, the attempt failed. "I'll publish it. But of course I can only give you a small royalty." "What royalty?" I asked. "Five per cent.--on a three-and-six-penny book." "Very well. Thank you!" I said. "I'll give you fifteen per cent, after the sale of five thousand copies," he added kindly. O ironist! I emerged from the web of the spider triumphant, an accepted author. Exactly ten days had elapsed since I had first parted with my manuscript. Once again life was plagiarizing fiction. I could not believe that this thing was true. I simply could not believe it. "Oh!" I reflected, incredulous, "Something's bound to happen. It can't really come off. The publisher might die, and then----" Protected by heaven on account of his good deeds, the publisher felicitously survived; and after a delay of twelve months (twelve centuries--during which I imagined that the universe hung motionless and expectant in the void!) he accomplished his destiny by really and truly publishing my book. The impossible had occurred. I was no longer a mere journalist; I was an author. "After all, it's nothing!" I said, with that intense and unoriginal humanity which distinguishes all of us. And in a blinding flash I saw that an author was in essence the same thing as a grocer or a duke. IX My novel, under a new title, was published both in England and America. I actually collected forty-one reviews, of it, and there must have been many that escaped me. Of these forty-one, four were unfavourable, eleven mingled praise and blame in about equal proportions, and twenty-six were unmistakably favourable, a few of them being enthusiastic. Yet I had practically no friends on the press. One friend I had, a man of power, and he reviewed my book with an appreciation far too kind; but his article came as a complete surprise to me. Another friend I had, sub-editor of a society weekly, and he asked me for a copy of my book so that he might "look after it" in the paper. Here is part of the result: "He has all the young novelist's faults. . . . These are glaring faults; for, given lack of interest, and unpleasant scenes, how can a book be expected to be popular?" A third friend I had, who knew the chief fiction-reviewer on a great morning paper. He asked me for a special copy of my book, and quite on his own initiative, undertook to arrange the affair. Here is part of the result: