ure a
reader's ticket for the British Museum. Now this was not such a simple
matter as you may suppose; it was necessary to obtain the signature of
some respectable householder, and Reardon was acquainted with no such
person. His landlady was a decent woman enough, and a payer of rates and
taxes, but it would look odd, to say the least of it, to present oneself
in Great Russell Street armed with this person's recommendation. There
was nothing for it but to take a bold step, to force himself upon the
attention of a stranger--the thing from which his pride had always
shrunk. He wrote to a well-known novelist--a man with whose works he had
some sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself for a literary career.
I wish to study in the Reading-room of the British Museum, but have
no acquaintance to whom I can refer in the ordinary way. Will you help
me--I mean, in this particular only?' That was the substance of his
letter. For reply came an invitation to a house in the West-end. With
fear and trembling Reardon answered the summons. He was so shabbily
attired; he was so diffident from the habit of living quite alone; he
was horribly afraid lest it should be supposed that he looked for other
assistance than he had requested. Well, the novelist was a rotund and
jovial man; his dwelling and his person smelt of money; he was so happy
himself that he could afford to be kind to others.

'Have you published anything?' he inquired, for the young man's letter
had left this uncertain.

'Nothing. I have tried the magazines, but as yet without success.'

'But what do you write?'

'Chiefly essays on literary subjects.'

'I can understand that you would find a difficulty in disposing of them.
That kind of thing is supplied either by men of established reputation,
or by anonymous writers who have a regular engagement on papers and
magazines. Give me an example of your topics.'

'I have written something lately about Tibullus.'

'Oh, dear! Oh, dear!--Forgive me, Mr Reardon; my feelings were too much
for me; those names have been my horror ever since I was a schoolboy.
Far be it from me to discourage you, if your line is to be solid
literary criticism; I will only mention, as a matter of fact, that such
work is indifferently paid and in very small demand. It hasn't occurred
to you to try your hand at fiction?'

In uttering the word he beamed; to him it meant a thousand or so a year.

'I am afraid I have no talent for that.'

The nove