“No, thank you,”—I answered, feeling grateful to my friend Rimânez for having placed me in a perfectly independent position to confront these solicitors—“I am amply provided.”
They seemed, I fancied, a trifle surprised at this, but were too discreet to offer any remark. They wrote down my address at the Grand Hotel, and sent their clerk to show me to the door. I gave this man half-a-sovereign to drink my health which he very cheerfully promised to do,—then I walked round by the Law Courts, trying to realize that I was not in a dizzy dream, but that I was actually and solidly, five times a millionaire. As luck would have it, in turning a corner I jostled up against a man coming the other way, the very publisher who had returned me my rejected manuscript the day before.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed stopping short.
“Hullo!” I rejoined.
“Where are you off to?” he went on—“Going to try and [p 51] place that unlucky novel? My dear boy, believe me it will never do as it is....”
“It will do, it shall do;”—I said calmly—“I am going to publish it myself.”
He started. “Publish it yourself! Good heavens!—it will cost you—ah!—sixty or seventy, perhaps a hundred pounds.”
“I don’t care if it costs me a thousand!”
A red flush came into his face, and his eyes opened in astonishment.
“I thought ... excuse me ...” he stammered awkwardly; “I thought money was scarce with you——”