I hated the dismal little 'slavey' who, twice a week, on an average, would bring him up to me. If she smiled as she handed me the packet, I fancied she was jeering at me. If she looked sad, as she more often did, poor little over-worked slut, I thought she was pitying me. I shunned the postman if I saw him in the street, sure that he guessed my shame.
'Did anyone ever read you out of all those I sent you to?' I ask him.
'Do editors read manuscript by unknown authors?' he asks me in return.
'I fear not more than they can help,' I confess; 'they would have little else to do.'
'Oh,' he remarks demurely, 'I thought I had read that they did.'
'Very likely,' I reply; 'I have also read that theatrical managers read all the plays sent to them, eager to discover new talent. One obtains much curious information by reading.'
[Illustration: I HATED THE DISMAL LITTLE 'SLAVEY']
'But somebody did read me eventually,' he reminds me; 'and liked me. Give credit where credit is due.'
'Ah, yes,' I admit; 'my good friend Aylmer Gowing--the "Walter Gordon" of the old Haymarket in Buckstone's time, "Gentleman Gordon" as Charles Matthews nicknamed him--kindliest and most genial of men. Shall I ever forget the brief note that came to me four days after I had posted you to "The Editor--_Play_":--"Dear Sir, I like your articles very much. Can you call on me to-morrow morning before twelve?--Yours truly, W. AYLMER GOWING."'
So success had come at last--not the glorious goddess I had pictured, but a quiet, pleasant-faced lady. I had imagined the editor of _Cornhill_, or the _Nineteenth Century_, or _The Illustrated London News_ writing me that my manuscript was the most brilliant, witty, and powerful story he had ever read, and enclosing me a cheque for two hundred guineas. _The Play_ was an almost unknown little penny weekly, 'run' by Mr. Gowing--who, though retired, could not bear to be altogether unconnected with his beloved stage--at a no inconsiderable yearly loss. It could give me little fame and less wealth. But a crust is a feast to a man who has grown weary of dreaming dinners, and as I sat with that letter in my hand a mist rose before my eyes, and I--acted in a way that would read foolish if written down.