without my dinner, and had never returned to it. Then there was a
correspondence,--if that can be called a correspondence in which
all the letters came from one side. At last the mother appeared at
the Post Office. My hair almost stands on my head now as I remember
the figure of the woman walking into the big room in which I sat
with six or seven other clerks, having a large basket on her arm and
an immense bonnet on her head. The messenger had vainly endeavoured
to persuade her to remain in the ante-room. She followed the man
in, and walking up the centre of the room, addressed me in a loud
voice: "Anthony Trollope, when are you going to marry my daughter?"
We have all had our worst moments, and that was one of my worst. I
lived through it, however, and did not marry the young lady. These
little incidents were all against me in the office.

And then a certain other phase of my private life crept into official
view, and did me a damage. As I shall explain just now, I rarely
at this time had any money wherewith to pay my bills. In this state
of things a certain tailor had taken from me an acceptance for, I
think, (pounds)12, which found its way into the hands of a money-lender.
With that man, who lived in a little street near Mecklenburgh Square,
I formed a most heart-rending but a most intimate acquaintance.
In cash I once received from him (pounds)4. For that and for the original
amount of the tailor's bill, which grew monstrously under repeated
renewals, I paid ultimately something over (pounds)200. That is so common
a story as to be hardly worth the telling; but the peculiarity of
this man was that he became so attached to me as to visit me every
day at my office. For a long period he found it to be worth his
while to walk up those stone steps daily, and come and stand behind
my chair, whispering to me always the same words: "Now I wish you
would be punctual. If you only would be punctual, I should like