To-morrow?

Cras te victurum, cras dicis Postume semper Dic mihi cras istud, Postume quando venit? Quam longe cras istud, ubi est? aut unde petendum? Cras istud quanti dic mihi, possit emi? Cras vives? hodie jam vivere, Postume, serum est Ille sapit, quisquis Postume, vixit heri. MART. v. lviii.

REJECTED! rejected!
I crushed the letter spasmodically in my hand as I walked mechanically up and down the length of the dining-room, a rage of anger filling my brain and the blood thundering in my ears.
Rejected! and that not for the first time. Another year and a half's work flung away—simply flung away, and I am no nearer recognition than ever. Incredible it seems that they won't accept that.
I stopped under the gasalier and glanced again through the letter I had just received.
DEAR SIR,—With reference to your last MS., we regret to say we cannot undertake its publication, owing to the open way in which you express your unusual religious views and your contempt for existing institutions.
At the same time, our reader expresses his admiration for your style, and his regret that your unmistakably brilliant genius should be directed towards unsatisfactory subjects.—We are, etc., etc.
The blood flowed hotly over my face, and my teeth closed hard upon my lip.
Always the same thing! rejection from every quarter.
The last clause in the letter, which might have brought some momentary gratification to a man less certain, less absolutely sure of his own powers than I was, could bring none to me.
It only served to make sharper the edge of my keen disappointment. Brilliant genius! I read the words with the shadow of a satirical smile.