The return to the world and to Powells, while partaking of the nature of a triumph, was at the same time something of a cold, fume-dispersing, commonsense-bestowing bath for Henry. He had meant to tell Sir George casually² that he had taken advantage of his enforced leisure to write a book. 'Taken advantage of his enforced leisure' was the precise phrase which Henry had in mind to use. But, when he found himself in the strenuous⁴, stern, staid, sapient⁵ and rational atmosphere of Powells, he felt with a shock of perception that in rattling⁶ off Love in Babylon he had been guilty of one of those charming weaknesses to which great and serious men are sometimes tempted⁷, but of which great and serious men never boast. And he therefore confined his personal gossip with Sir George to the turkey, the mince-tarts, and the question of contagion⁸. He plunged⁹ into his work with a feeling akin¹ to dignified¹⁰ remorse¹¹, and Sir George was vehemently¹² and openly delighted by the proofs which he gave of undiminished loyalty¹³ and devotion.  
Nevertheless Henry continued to believe in the excellence¹⁴ of his book, and he determined¹⁵ that, in duty to himself, his mother and aunt, and the cause of wholesome¹⁶ fiction, he must try to get it published. From that moment he began to be worried, for he had scarcely a notion how sagaciously to set about the business. He felt like a bachelor of pronounced views who has been given a baby to hold. He knew no one in the realms of literature, and no one who knew anyone. Sir George, warily¹⁷ sounded, appeared to be unaware¹⁸ that such a thing as fiction existed. Not a soul at the Polytechnic¹⁹ enjoyed the acquaintance of either an author or a publisher, though various souls had theories about these classes of persons. Then one day a new edition of the works of Carlyle burst on the world, and Henry bought the first volume, Sartor Resartus, a book which he much admired, and which he had learnt from his father to call simply and familiarly—Sartor. The edition, though inexpensive, had a great air of dignity. It met, in short, with Henry's approval, and he suddenly decided²⁰ to give the publishers of it the opportunity of publishing Love in Babylon. The deed was done in a moment. He wrote a letter explaining the motives²¹ which had led him to write Love in Babylon, and remarked that, if the publishers cared for the story, mutually satisfactory terms might be arranged later; and Aunt Annie did Love in Babylon up in a neat parcel. Henry was in the very act of taking the parcel to the post, on his way to town, when Aunt Annie exclaimed:
 
'Of course you'll register it?'
 
He had not thought of doing so, but the advisability of such a step at once appealed to him.
 
'Perhaps I'd better,' he said.
 
'But that only means two pounds if it's lost, doesn't it?' Mrs. Knight²² inquired.
 
Henry nodded and pondered.
 
'Perhaps I'd better insure it,' he suggested.
 
'If I were you, I should insure it for a hundred pounds,' said Aunt Annie positively²³.
 
 
'But that will cost one and a penny,' said Henry, who had all such details by heart. 'I could insure it for twenty pounds for fivepence.'
 
'Well, say twenty pounds then,' Aunt Annie agreed, relenting.
 
So he insured Love in Babylon for twenty pounds and despatched it. In three weeks it returned like the dove to the ark (but soiled), with a note to say that, though the publishers' reader regarded it as promising²⁴, the publishers could not give themselves the pleasure of making an offer for it. Thenceforward Henry and the manuscript suffered all the usual experiences, and the post-office reaped all the usual profits. One firm said the story was good, but too short. ('A pitiful excuse,' thought Henry. 'As if length could affect merit.') Another said nothing. Another offered to publish it if Henry would pay a hundred pounds down. (At this point Henry ceased to insure the parcel.) Another sent it back minus the last leaf, the matter of which Henry had to reinvent and Aunt Annie to recopy. Another returned it insufficiently²⁵ stamped, and there was fourpence to pay. Another kept it four months, and disgorged it only under threat of a writ³; the threat was launched forth²⁶ on Powells' formidable notepaper. At length there arrived a day when even Henry's pertinacity²⁷ was fatigued²⁸, and he forgot, merely forgot, to send out the parcel again. It was put in a drawer, after a year of ceaseless adventures, and Mrs. Knight and Aunt Annie discreetly²⁹ forbore to mention it. During that year Henry's opinion on his work had fluctuated. There had been moments, days perhaps, of discouragement, when he regarded it as drivel, and himself as a fool—in so far, that is, as he had trafficked with literature. On the other hand, his original view of it reasserted itself with frequency. And in the end he gloomily and proudly decided, once and for all, that the Stream of Trashy Novels Constantly Poured Forth by the Press had killed all demand for wholesome fiction; he came reluctantly to the conclusion that modern English literature was in a very poor way. He breathed a sigh, and dismissed the episode utterly³⁰ from his mind.
 
And Love in Babylon languished³¹ in the drawer for three months.
 
Then, upon an April mo............