I daresay we sighed, but never were collaborators more prepared for rejection, and though my mother might look wistfully at the scorned manuscript at times and murmur, 'You poor cold little crittur shut away in a drawer, are you dead or just sleeping ?' she had still her editor to say grace over.

And at last publishers, sufficiently daring and far more than sufficiently generous, were found for us by a dear friend, who made one woman very 'uplifted.' He also was an editor, and had as large a part in making me a writer of books as the other in determining what the books should be about.
Now that I was an author I must get into a club.

But you should have heard my mother on clubs! She knew of none save those to which you subscribe a pittance weekly in anticipation of rainy days, and the London clubs were her scorn.

Often I heard her on them--she raised her voice to make me hear, whichever room I might be in, and it was when she was sarcastic that I skulked the most: 'Thirty pounds is what he will have to pay the first year, and ten pounds a year after that.

You think it's a lot o' siller?
Oh no, you're mista'en--it's nothing ava.