I HAD done a few things and earned a few pence-I had perhaps even had time to begin tothink I was finer than was perceived by the patronising; but when I take the little measureof my course (a fidgety habit, for it's none of the longest yet) I count my real start from theevening George Corvick, breathless and worried, came in to ask me a service. He had donemore things than I, and earned more pence, though there were chances for cleverness Ithought he sometimes missed. I could only however that evening declare to him that henever missed one for kindness. There was almost rapture in hearing it proposed to me toprepare for The Middle, the organ of our lucubrations, so called from the position in theweek of its day of appearance, an article for which he had made himself responsible and ofwhich, tied up with a stout string, he laid on my table the subject. I pounced upon myopportunity-that is on the first volume of it-and paid scant attention to my friend'sexplanation of his appeal. What explanation could be more to the point than my obviousfitness for the task? I had written on Hugh Vereker, but never a word in The Middle, wheremy dealings were mainly with the ladies and the minor poets. This was his new novel, anadvance copy, and whatever much or little it should do for his reputation I was clear on thespot as to what it should do for mine. Moreover if I always read him as soon as I could gethold of him I had a particular reason for wishing to read him now: I had accepted aninvitation to Bridges for the following Sunday, and it had been mentioned in Lady Jane'snote that Mr. Vereker was to be there. I was young enough for a flutter at meeting a man ofhis renown, and innocent enough to believe the occasion would demand the display of anacquaintance with his "last."Corvick, who had promised a review of it, had not even had time to read it; he had gone topieces in consequence of news requiring-as on precipitate reflexion he judged-that heshould catch the night-mail to Paris. He had had a telegram from Gwendolen Erme inanswer to his letter offering to fly to her aid. I knew already about Gwendolen Erme; I hadnever seen her, but I had my ideas, which were mainly to the effect that Corvick wouldmarry her if her mother would only die. That lady seemed now in a fair way to oblige him;after some dreadful mistake about a climate or a "cure" she had suddenly collapsed on thereturn from abroad. Her daughter, unsupported and alarmed, desiring to make a rush forhome but hesitating at the risk, had accepted our friend's assistance, and it was my secretbelief that at sight of him Mrs. Erme would pull round. His own belief was scarcely to becalled secret; it discernibly at any rate differed from mine. He had showed me Gwendolen'sphotograph with the remark that she wasn't pretty but was awfully interesting; she hadpublished at the age of nineteen a novel in three volumes, "Deep Down," about which, inThe Middle, he had been really splendid. He appreciated my present eagerness andundertook that the periodical in question should do no less; then at the last, with his hand on the door, he said to me: "Of course you'll be all right, you know."