I actually jumped for joy. It seemed as if the whole literary world were opening at my feet. Of course, I copied it all out carefully on one side of the paper as ordered, and added a little bit here and a little bit there, counting the words one by one as they crept from tens into hundreds. The article duly appeared. It was wonderfully well reviewed, for it was the first thing of the kind on Pasteur that had been written in English, and therefore was quoted at some length in our Press. A few years afterwards, when struggling to pay Charterhouse and Harrow bills, I was dining out one night when a gentleman was introduced to me. He said: “I know you very well, Mrs. Alec Tweedie, far better than you know me. I have printed several of your articles.” “Indeed,” I exclaimed, surprised, “but I have never seen you before.” “No, but you know the editor of _Murray’s Magazine_ as a correspondent.” “Of course I do,” I laughed, “and love him very much, for he printed my first magazine effort.” “I am the man,” he replied; “I am W. L. Courtney, under which name I have since accepted several articles of yours for the _Fortnightly Review_.” This was a pleasant means of introduction to one’s editor. Lending or borrowing money ends friendship, and in the same way I feel shy of offering my wares to anyone I know. Mr. Courtney and I are excellent friends; but the work is arranged by an agent nowadays. Friendship and work have never gone together in my case. It is so much better to be incognito, and for them to remain unknown. Writing is a business, and can only be worked on a strictly business footing. On one of the few occasions I ever entered an editor’s room—certainly in all those thirteen years of stress of work the occasions could be counted on my fingers—the experience was not pleasant. Up dirty, dark stairs I stumbled, and after much waiting was shown into the gentleman’s office. I informed him I was going abroad, that I could take photographs, and suggested a somewhat new scheme of illustrated articles. “What do you want for half a dozen?” he enquired. “Five guineas a column,” was my reply. “Five guineas a column. Tush! I’ll give you one guinea; and take six articles.” I had only been a widow a short time, and was in deep, dull black, with the little uniform muslin collar and cuffs. He looked me up and down. Perhaps he thought I wanted the money badly, and repeated “A guinea a column, no more.” “But I cannot take less than five. I am going abroad to get the information, and six guineas would not pay the ticket one way.” “Ten guineas for the six, then.” “No,” I replied, sticking firmly to my guns; “I am sorry I cannot do them for that. Good morning.” He barely raised his eyes from the paper. He did not even rise, nor open the door. I stepped out, choking with humiliation and tears, but with my head still high.