Yes, there had been something wrong with the interview. It had entirely¹ failed to tally² with his expectations of it. The fact was that he, Henry, had counted for very little in it. He had sat still and listened, and, after answering Mr. Mark Snyder's questions, he had made no original remark except 'A thousand pounds!' And if he was disappointed with Mr. Snyder, and puzzled by him, too, he was also disappointed with himself. He felt that he had displayed none of those business qualities which he knew he possessed³. He was a man of affairs, with a sure belief in his own capacity to handle any matter requiring tact⁴ and discretion⁵; and yet he had lolled like a simpleton in the Chippendale chair of Mr. Snyder, and contributed naught⁶ to the interview save 'A thousand pounds!'  
Nevertheless, he sincerely thought Mr. Snyder's terms exorbitant⁷. He was not of the race of literary aspirants⁸ who are eager to be published at any price. Literature had no fatal fascination⁹ for him. His wholly sensible idea now was that, having written a book, he might as well get it printed and make an honest penny out of it, if possible. However, the effect of the visit to Kenilworth Mansions¹⁰ was to persuade him to resolve to abandon the enterprise; Mr. Mark Snyder had indeed discouraged him. And in the evening, when he reached Dawes Road, he gave his mother and aunt a truthful¹¹ account of the episode, and stated, pleasantly but plainly, that he should burn Love in Babylon. And his mother and aunt, perceiving that he was in earnest, refrained from comment.
 
And after they had gone to bed he took Love in Babylon out of the brown paper in which he had wrapped it, and folded the brown paper and tied up the string; and he was in the very act of putting Love in Babylon bodily on the fire, when he paused.
 
'Suppose I give it one more chance?' he reflected.
 
 
 
He had suddenly thought of the name of Mr. Onions Winter, and of Mr. Snyder's interrupted observations upon that publisher. He decided¹² to send Love in Babylon to Mr. Winter. He untied¹³ the string, unfolded the brown paper, indited¹⁴ a brief letter, and made the parcel anew.
 
A week later, only a week, Mr. Onions Winter wrote asking Henry to call upon him without delay, and Henry called. The establishment of Mr. Onions Winter was in Leicester Square, between the Ottoman Music Hall and a milliner's shop. Architecturally it presented rather a peculiar¹⁶ appearance. The leading feature of the ground-floor was a vast arch, extending across the entire frontage in something more than a semicircle. Projecting from the keystone of the arch was a wrought-iron sign bearing a portrait in copper¹⁷, and under the portrait the words 'Ye Shakspere Head.' Away beneath the arch was concealed¹⁸ the shop-window, an affair of small square panes¹⁹, and in the middle of every small pane²⁰ was stuck a small card, 'The Satin Library—Onions Winter.' This mystic phrase was repeated a hundred and sixty-five times. To the right of the window was a low green door with a copper handle in the shape of a sow's tail, and the legend 'Ye Office of Onions Winter.'
 
'Is Mr. Winter in?' Henry demanded of a young man in a very high collar, after he had mastered the mechanism²¹ of the sow's tail.
 
'Yes, he's in,' said the young man rudely, as Henry thought. (How different from Goldenhair was this high collar!)
 
'Do you want to see him?' asked the young man, when he had hummed an air and stared out of the window.
 
'No,' said Henry placidly²². 'But he wants to see me. My name is Knight²³.'
 
Henry had these flashes of brilliance²⁴ from time to time. They came of themselves, as Love in Babylon came. He felt that he was beginning better with Mr. Onions Winter than he had begun with Mr. Mark Snyder.
 
In another moment he was seated opposite Mr. Winter in a charming but littered apartment on the first-floor. He came to the conclusion that all literary offices must be drawing-rooms.
 
'And so you are the author of Love in Babylon?' began Mr. Winter. He was a tall man, with burning eyes, grey hair, a grey beard which stuck out like the sun's rays, but no moustache. The naked grey upper lip was very deep, and somehow gave him a formidable appearance. He wore a silk hat at the back of his head, and a Melton overcoat rather like Henry's own, but much longer.
 
'You like it?' said Henry boldly.
 
'I think—— The fact is, I will be frank with you, Mr. Knight.' Here Mr. Onions Winter picked up Love in Babylon, which lay before him, and sniffed²⁵ at it exactly as Mr. Snyder had done. 'The fact is, I shouldn't have thought twice about it if it hadn't been for this peculiar odour——'
 
Here Henry explained the odour.
 
'Ah yes. Very interesting!' observed Mr. Winter without a smile. 'Very curious! We might make a par¹⁵ out of that. Onions—onions. The public likes these coincidences. Well, as I tell you, I shouldn't have thought twice about it if it hadn't been for this——' (Sniff²⁶, sniff.) 'Then I happened to glance at the title, and the title attracted me. I must admit that the title attracted me. You have hit on a very pretty title, Mr. Knight, a very pretty title indeed. I took your book home and read it myself, Mr. Knight. I didn't send it to any of my readers. Not a soul in this office has read it except me. I'm a bit superstitious²⁷, you know. We all are—everyone is, when it comes to the point. And that Onions—onions! And then the pretty title! I like your book, Mr. Knight. I tell you candidly²⁸, I like it. It's graceful²⁹ and touching³⁰, and original. It's got atmosphere. It's got that indefinable something—je ne sais quoi—that we publishers are always searching for. Of course it's crude—very crude in places. It might be improved. What do you want for it, Mr. Knight? What are you asking?'
 
Mr. Onions Winter rose and walked to the window in order, apparently³¹, to drink his fill of the statue of Shakspere in the middle of the square.
 
'I don't know,' said Henry, overjoyed but none the less perplexed³². 'I have not considered the question of price.'
 
'Will you take twenty-five pounds cash down for it—lock, stock, and barrel? You know it's very short. In fact, I'm just about the only publisher in London who would be likely to deal with it.'
 
Henry kept silence.
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