n the
breakfast-table certain cards of invitation which the post of the
morning had brought in for Pen, and which happened to come from some
very exalted personage of the beau-monde, into which our young man
had his introduction. Looking down upon these, Bacon saw that the
Marchioness of Steyne would be at home to Mr. Arthur Pendennis upon a
given day, and that another lady of distinction proposed to have dancing
at her house upon a certain future evening. Warrington saw the admiring
publisher eyeing these documents. "Ah," said he, with an air of
simplicity, "Pendennis is one of the most affable young men I ever knew,
Mr. Bacon. Here is a young fellow that dines with all the men in London,
and yet he'll take his mutton-chop with you and me quite contentedly.
There's nothing like the affability of the old English gentleman."

"Oh no, nothing," said Mr. Bacon.

"And you wonder why he should go on living up three pair of stairs with
me, don't you now? Well, it is a queer taste. But we are fond of each
other; and as I can't afford to live in a great house, he comes and
stays in these rickety old chambers with me. He's a man that can afford
to live anywhere."

"I fancy it don't cost him much here," thought Mr. Bacon, and the object
of these praises presently entered the room from his adjacent sleeping
apartment.

Then Mr. Bacon began to speak upon the subject of his visit; said he
heard that Mr. Pendennis had a manuscript novel; professed himself
anxious to have a sight of that work, and had no doubt that they could
come to terms respecting it. What would be his price for it? would he
give Bacon the refusal of it? he would find our house a liberal house,
and so forth. The delighted Pen assumed an air of indifference, and said
that he was already in treaty with Bungay, and could give no definite
answer. This piqued the other into such liberal, though vague offers,
that Pen began to fancy Eldorado was opening to him, and that his
fortune was made from that day.

I shall not mention what was the sum of money which Mr. Arthur
Pendennis finally received for the first edition of his novel of 'Walter
Lorraine,' lest other young literary aspirants should expect to be as
lucky as he was, and unprofessional persons forsake their own callings,
whatever they may be, for the sake of supplying the world with novels,
whereof there is already a sufficiency. Let no young people be misled
and rush fatally into romance-writing: for one b