There was no one to tell me about Huxley, or in what way he might be connected with the School of Mines.
It was a good dinner.

There sat at table a gentleman by the name of Tyndall and another by the name of Mill--of neither I had ever heard--but there was still another of the name of Spencer, whom I fancied must be a literary man, for I recalled having reviewed a clever book on Education some four years agone by a writer of that name; a certain Herbert Spencer, whom I rightly judged might he be.
The dinner, I repeat, was a very good dinner indeed--the Huxleys, I took it, must be well to do--the company agreeable; a bit pragmatic, however, I thought.

The gentleman by the name of Spencer said he loved music and wished to hear Mrs.Watterson sing, especially Longfellow's Rainy Day, and left the others of us--Huxley, Mill, Tyndall and myself--at table.
Finding them a little off on the Irish question as well as American affairs, I set them right as to both with much particularity and a great deal of satisfaction to myself.
Whatever Huxley's occupation, it turned out that he had at least one book-publishing acquaintance, Mr.Alexander Macmillan, to whom he introduced me next day, for I had brought with me a novel--the great American romance--too good to be wasted on New York, Philadelphia or Boston, but to appear simultaneously in England and the United States, to be translated, of course, into French, Italian and German.

This was actually accepted.

It was held for final revision.
We were to pass the winter in Italy.