alternate pangs of hope and despair. Now and then he was almost assured
of success; conning over these painful and eager pages in memory, he
found parts that were admirable, while again, his inexperience reproached
him, and he feared he had written a raw and awkward book, wholly unfit
for print. Then he would compare what he remembered of it with notable
magazine articles and books praised by reviewers, and fancy that after
all there might be good points in the thing; he could not help liking the
first chapter for instance. Perhaps the letter might come tomorrow. So it
went on; week after week of sick torture made more exquisite by such
gleams of hope; it was as if he were stretched in anguish on the rack,
and the pain relaxed and kind words spoken now and again by the
tormentors, and then once more the grinding pang and burning agony. At
last he could bear suspense no longer, and he wrote to Messrs Beit,
inquiring in a humble manner whether the manuscript had arrived in
safety. The firm replied in a very polite letter, expressing regret that
their reader had been suffering from a cold in the head, and had
therefore been unable to send in his report. A final decision was
promised in a week's time, and the letter ended with apologies for the
delay and a hope that he had suffered no inconvenience. Of course the
"final decision" did not come at the end of the week, but the book was
returned at the end of three weeks, with a circular thanking the author
for his kindness in submitting the manuscript, and regretting that the
firm did not see their way to producing it. He felt relieved; the
operation that he had dreaded and deprecated for so long was at last
over, and he would no longer grow sick of mornings when the letters were
brought in. He took his parcel to the sunny corner of the garden, where
the old wooden seat stood sheltered from the biting March winds. Messrs
Beit had put in with the circular one of their short lists, a neat
booklet, headed: _Messrs Beit & Co.'s Recent Publications_.