OUT OF TOWN
It was an empty day, in the early part of the year, and I was its very idle singer; so idle that I was beginning to wonder whether there would be any Sunday dinner for me. I took stock of my possessions in coin, and found one-and-ten-pence-halfpenny. Was I downhearted? Yes. But I didn't worry, for when things are at their worst, my habit is always to fold my hands and trust. Something always happens.
Something happened on this occasion: a double knock at the door and a telegram. It was from the most enlightened London publisher, whose firm has done so much in the way of encouraging young writers, and it asked me to call at once. I did so.
"Like to go to Monte Carlo?" he asked.
When I had recovered from the swoon, I begged him to ask another.
"Here's an American millionaire," he said, "writing from Monte Carlo. He wants to write a book, and he wants some assistance. How would it suit you?"
I said it would suit me like a Savile Row outfit of clothes.
"When can you go?"
"Any old time."