“I know you very well, Mrs. Alec Tweedie, far better than you know me. I have printed several of your articles.”
“Indeed,” I exclaimed, surprised, “but I have never seen you before.”
“No, but you know the editor of Murray’s Magazine as a correspondent.”
“Of course I do,” I laughed, “and love him very much, for he printed my first magazine effort.”
“I am the man,” he replied; “I am W. L. Courtney, under which name I have since accepted several articles of yours for the Fortnightly Review.”
This was a pleasant means of introduction to one’s editor.
Lending or borrowing money ends friendship, and in the same way I feel shy of offering my wares to anyone I know. Mr. Courtney and I are excellent friends; but the work is arranged by an agent nowadays. Friendship and work have never gone together in my case. It is so much better to be incognito, and for them to remain unknown. Writing is a business, and can only be worked on a strictly business footing.
On one of the few occasions I ever entered an editor’s room—certainly in all those thirteen years of stress of work the occasions could be counted on my fingers—the experience was not pleasant.
Up dirty, dark stairs I stumbled, and after much waiting was shown into the gentleman’s office. I informed him I was going abroad, that I could take photographs, and suggested a somewhat new scheme of illustrated articles.
“What do you want for half a dozen?” he enquired.