Just look at these letters--and you know what a post we had this morning! Now don't bother about the taxi! What does it matter?
Come and open the post." Whereupon Doris Meadows felt herself forcibly drawn down to a seat on the sofa beside her husband, who threw a bundle of letters upon his wife's lap, and then turned eagerly to open others with which his own hands were full.
"H'm!--Two more publishers' letters, asking for the book--don't they wish they may get it! But I could have made a far better bargain if I'd only waited a fortnight.

Just my luck! One--two--four--autograph fiends! The last--a lady, of course!--wants a page of the first lecture.

Calm! Invitations from the Scottish Athenaeum--the Newcastle Academy--the Birmingham Literary Guild--the Glasgow Poetic Society--the 'British Philosophers'-- the Dublin Dilettanti!--Heavens!--how many more! None of them offering cash, as far as I can see--only fame--pure and undefiled! Hullo!--that's a compliment!--the Parnassians have put me on their Council.

And last year, I was told, I couldn't even get in as an ordinary member.

Dash their impudence!...