volume. I told Archibald Forbes, the great war correspondent, of my wish
for publication, and asked him if he would mind reading the sketches and
stories before I approached a publisher. He immediately consented, and
one day I brought him the little brown bag containing the tales.

A few days afterwards there came an invitation to lunch, and I went to
Clarence Gate, Regent's Park, to learn what Archibald Forbes thought of
my tales. We were quite merry at luncheon, and after luncheon, which for
him was a glass of milk and a biscuit, Forbes said to me, "Those stories,
Parker--you have the best collection of titles I have ever known." He
paused. I understood. To his mind the tales did not live up to their
titles. He hastily added, "But I am going to give you a letter of
introduction to Macmillan. I may be wrong." My reply was: "You need not
give me a letter to Macmillan unless I write and ask you for it."

I took my little brown bag and went back to my comfortable rooms in an
old-fashioned square. I sat down before the fire on this bleak winter's
night with a couple of years' work on my knee. One by one I glanced
through the stories and in some cases read them carefully, and one by one
I put them in the fire, and watched them burn. I was heavy at heart, but
I felt that Forbes was right, and my own instinct told me that my ideas
were better than my performance--and Forbes was right. Nothing was left
of the tales; not a shred of paper, not a scrap of writing. They had all
gone up the chimney in smoke. There was no self-pity. I had a grim kind
of feeling regarding the thing, but I had no regrets, and I have never
had any regrets since. I have forgotten most of the titles, and indeed
all the stories except one. But Forbes and I were right; of that I am
sure.

The next day after the arson I walked for hours where London was busiest.