At length arrived the eve of the consummation of Mr. Onions Winter's mercantile labours. Forty thousand copies of A Question of Cubits (No. 8 of the Satin Library) had been printed, and already, twenty-four hours before they were to shine in booksellers' shops and on the counters of libraries, every copy had been sold to the trade and a second edition was in the press. Thus, it was certain that one immortal¹ soul per thousand of the entire British race would read Henry's story. In literature, when nine hundred and ninety-nine souls ignore you, but the thousandth buys your work, or at least borrows it—that is called enormous popularity. Henry retired² to bed in Dawes Road that night sure of his enormous popularity. But he did not dream of the devoted³ army of forty thousand admirers. He dreamt of the reviews, some of which he knew were to appear on the day of publication itself. A hundred copies of A Question of Cubits had been sent out for review, and in his dreams he saw a hundred highly-educated men, who had given their lives to the study of fiction, bending anxiously over the tome and seeking with conscientious⁴ care the precise phrases in which most accurately⁵ to express their expert appreciation⁶ of it. He dreamt much of the reviewer of the Daily Tribune, his favourite morning paper, whom he pictured as a man of forty-five or so, with gold-rimmed spectacles and an air of generous enthusiasm. He hoped great things from the article in the Daily Tribune (which, by a strange accident, had completely ignored Love in Babylon), and when he arose in the morning (he had been lying awake a long time waiting to hear the scamper⁷ of the newsboy on the steps) he discovered that his hopes were happily realized. The Daily Tribune had given nearly a column of praise to A Question of Cubits, had quoted some choice extracts, had drawn⁸ special attention to the wonderful originality⁹ of the plot, and asserted that the story was an advance, 'if an advance were possible,' on the author's previous book. His mother and Aunt Annie consumed the review at breakfast with an excellent appetite, and lauded¹⁰ the insight of the critic.  
What had happened at the offices of the Daily Tribune was this. At the very moment when Henry was dreaming of its reviewer—namely, half-past eleven p.m.—its editor was gesticulating and shouting at the end of a speaking-tube:
 
'Haven't had proof of that review of a book called A Question of Cubits, or some such idiotic¹¹ title! Send it down at once, instantly. Do you hear? What? Nonsense!'
 
The editor sprang away from the tube, and dashed into the middle of a vast mass of papers on his desk, turning them all over, first in heaps, then singly. He then sprang in succession to various side-tables and served their contents in the same manner.
 
'I tell you I sent it up myself before dinner,' he roared into the tube. 'It's Mr. Clackmannan's "copy"—you know that peculiar¹² paper he writes on. Just look about. Oh, conf——!'
 
Then the editor rang a bell.
 
'Send Mr. Heeky to me, quick!' he commanded the messenger-boy.
 
'I'm just finishing that leaderette,' began Mr. Heeley, when he obeyed the summons. Mr. Heeley was a young man who had published a book of verse.
 
'Never mind the leaderette,' said the editor. 'Run across to the other shop yourself, and see if they've got a copy of A Question of Cubits—yes, that's it, A Question of Cubits—and do me fifteen inches on it at once. I've lost Clackmannan's "copy."' (The 'other shop' was a wing occupied by a separate journal belonging to the proprietors¹³ of the Tribune.)
 
'What, that thing!' exclaimed Mr. Heeley. 'Won't it do to-morrow? You know I hate messing my hands with that sort of piffle.'
 
'No, it won't do to-morrow. I met Onions Winter at dinner on Saturday night, and I told him I'd review it on the day of publication. And when I promise a thing I promise it. Cut, my son! And I say'—the editor recalled Mr. Heeley, who was gloomily departing—'We're under no obligations to anyone. Write what you think, but, all the same, no antics, no spleen. You've[Pg 219] got to learn yet that that isn't our speciality. You're not on the Whitehall now.'
 
'Oh, all right, chief—all right!' Mr. Heeley concurred¹⁴.
 
Five minutes later Mr. Heeley entered what he called his private boudoir, bearing a satinesque volume.
 
'Here, boys,' he cried to two other young men who were already there, smoking clay pipes—'here's a lark¹⁵! The chief wants fifteen inches on this charming and pathetic art-work as quick as you can. And no antics, he says. Here, Jack¹⁶, here's fifty pages for you'—Mr. Heeley ripped the beautiful inoffensive volume ruthlessly in pieces—and here's fifty for you, Clementina. Tell me your parts of the plot I'll deal with the first fifty my noble self.'
 
Presently, after laughter, snipping¹⁷ out of pages with scissors, and some unseemly language, Mr. Heeley began to write.
 
'Oh, he's shot up to six foot eight!' exclaimed Jack, interrupting the scribe.
 
'Snow!' observed the bearded man styled Clementina. 'He dies in the snow. Listen.' He read a passage from Henry's final scene, ending with 'His spirit had passed.' 'Chuck me the scissors, Jack.'
 
Mr. Heeley paused, looked up, and then drew his pen through what he had written.
 
'I say, boys,'he almost whispered, 'I'll praise it, eh? I'll take it seriously. It'll be simply delicious.'
 
'What about the chief?'
 
'Oh, the chief won't notice it! It'll be just for us three, and a few at the club.'
 
Then there was hard scribbling¹⁸, and pasting of extracts into blank spaces, and more laughter.
 
'"If an advance were possible,"' Clementina read, over Mr. Heeley's shoulder. 'You'll give the show away, you fool!'
 
'No, I shan't, Clemmy, my boy,' said Mr. Heeley judicially¹⁹. 'They'll stand simply anything. I bet you what you like Onions Winter quotes that all over the place.'
 
And he handed the last sheet of the review to a messenger, and ran off to the editorial room to report that instructions had been executed. Jack and Clementina relighted their pipes with select bits of A Question of Cubits, and threw the remaining débris of the volume into the waste-paper basket. The hour was twenty minutes past midnight....
 
The great majority of the reviews were exceedingly favourable²⁰, and even where praise was diluted²¹ with blame, the blame was administered with respect, as a dentist might respectfully pain a prince in pulling his tooth out. The public had voted for Henry, and the press, organ of public opinion, displayed a wise

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