So I arrived in London on a February day, about one o’clock.  And the hall-porter at the Golden Cross Hotel, and the two pale girls in the bureau of the hotel, were sympathetic and sweet to me, because I was young and alone, and in mourning, and because I had great rings round my eyes.  It was a fine day, blue and mild.  At half-past three I had nothing in the world to do.  I had come to London without a plan, without a purpose, with scarcely an introduction; I wished simply to plunge myself into its solitude, and to be alone with my secret fear.  I walked out into the street, slowly, like one whom ennui has taught to lose no chance of dissipating time.  I neither liked nor disliked London.  I had no feelings towards it save one of perplexity.  I thought it noisy, dirty, and hurried.  Its great name roused no thrill in my bosom.  On the morrow, I said, I would seek a lodging, and perhaps write to Ethel Ryley.  Meanwhile I strolled up into Trafalgar Square, and so into Charing Cross Road.  And in Charing Cross Road—­it was the curst accident of fate—­I saw the signboard of the celebrated old firm of publishers, Oakley and Dalbiac.  It is my intention to speak of my books as little as possible in this history.  I must, however, explain that six months before my aunt’s death I had already written my first novel, The Jest, and sent it to precisely Oakley and Dalbiac.  It was a wild welter of youthful extravagances, and it aimed to depict London society, of which I knew nothing whatever, with a flippant and cynical pen.  Oakley and Dalbiac had kept silence for several months, and had then stated, in an extremely formal epistle, that they thought the book might have some chance of success, and that they would be prepared to publish it on certain terms, but that I must not expect, etc.  By that time I had lost my original sublime faith in the exceeding excellence of my story, and I replied that I preferred to withdraw the book.  To this letter I had received no answer.  When I saw the famous sign over a doorway the impulse seized me to enter and get the manuscript, with the object of rewriting it.  Soon, I reflected, I might not be able to enter; the portals of mankind might be barred to me for a space....  I saw in a flash of insight that my salvation lay in work, and in nothing else.  I entered, resolutely.  A brougham was waiting at the doors.

After passing along counters furnished with ledgers and clerks, through a long, lofty room lined with great pigeon-holes containing thousands of books each wrapped separately in white paper, I was shown into what the clerk who acted as chamberlain called the office of the principal.  This room, too, was spacious, but so sombre that the electric light was already burning.  The first thing I noticed was that the window gave on a wall of white tiles.  In the middle of the somewhat dingy apartment was a vast, square table, and at this table sat a pale, tall man, whose youth astonished me—­for the firm of Oakley and Dalbiac was historic.