to roost. In the case of my
reckless sins against hygiene and my digestion, I know they did. But
also, I fancy, as touching work, and its monetary reward; for my
earnings increased somewhat, while my work suffered deterioration,
both in quality and quantity.

If it had not chanced to reach me in the black fit which preceded one
of my make-believe new honeymoons, I should doubtless have been a good
deal more elated than I was by the letter I received from Mr. Sylvanus
Creed, the well-known connoisseur and arbiter of literary taste, who
presided over the fortunes of the publishing house that bore his name.
This letter--written with distinction and a quill pen upon beautifully
embossed deckle-edged paper, which seemed to me to have a subtle
perfume about it--requested the pleasure of my company at luncheon
with the great Sylvanus; the place his favourite club--the Court, in
Piccadilly.

He received me with beautiful urbanity, if a thought languidly. It was
clearly a point of honour with him to refer to nothing so prosaic as
any kind of work until he had plied me with the best which his
luxurious club had to offer; and I gladly record that our luncheon was
by far the most ambitious meal I had ever made, or even dreamed of, up
to that day. And then, over the delicate Havannahs and fragrant coffee
and liqueurs--the enterprise of youth was still mine in these matters,
and in those days I accepted any such delicacies as the gods sent my
way with never a thought of question, or of consequence--I was
informed, with truly regal complaisance, that a certain bundle of
manuscript short stories of mine (which by this time had been the
round of quite a number of publishers' readers without making any
perceptible progress towards germination and print) had been chosen
for the honour of inclusion in the new _Fin de siecle_ Library of
Fiction, which, as all the world knows--or knew, at all events, during
that season--represented the last word, both in literary excellence
and artistic publishing.

I was perhaps less overpowered than I might, and no doubt ought to
have been, by reason of the fact that I had at least been shrewd
enough to know in advance that it was hardly for my bright eyes the
famous publisher was entertaining me. However, I assumed a decent
amount of ecstasy, and was genuinely glad of the prospect of seeing my
first book handsomely published. After a proper interval I ventured
upon a delicate inquiry as to terms; wher