ON the day after Lord Harry’s description of the state of his mind reached London, a gentleman presented himself at the publishing office of Messrs. Boldside Brothers, and asked for the senior partner, Mr. Peter Boldside. When he sent in his card, it bore the name of “Mr. Vimpany.”

“To what fortunate circumstance am I indebted, sir, for the honour of your visit?” the senior partner inquired. His ingratiating manners, his genial smile, his roundly resonant voice, were personal advantages of which he made a merciless use. The literary customer who entered the office, hesitating before the question of publishing a work at his own expense, generally decided to pay the penalty when he encountered Mr. Peter Boldside.

“I want to inquire about the sale of my work,” Mr. Vimpany replied.

“Ah, doctor, you have come to the wrong man. You must go to my brother.”

Mr. Vimpany protested. “You mentioned the terms when I first applied to you,” he said, “and you signed the agreement.”

“That is in my department,” the senior partner gently explained. “And I shall write the cheque when, as we both hope, your large profits shall fall due. But our sales of works are in the department of my brother, Mr. Paul Boldside.” He rang a bell; a clerk appeared, and received his instructions: “Mr. Paul. Good-morning, doctor.”

Mr. Paul was, personally speaking, his brother repeated — without the deep voice, and without the genial smile. Conducted to the office of the junior partner, Mr. Vimpany found himself in the presence of a stranger, occupied in turning over the pages of a newspaper. When his name was announced, the publisher started, and handed his newspaper to the doctor.

“This is a coincidence,” he said. “I was looking, sir, for your name in the pages which I have just put into your hand. Surely the editor can’t have refused to publish your letter?”

Mr. Vimpany was sober, and therefore sad, and therefore (again) not to be trifled with by a mystifying reception. “I don’t understand you,” he answered gruffly. “What do you mean?”

“Is it possible that you have not seen last week’s number of the paper?” Mr. Paul asked. “And you a literary man!” He forthwith produced the last week’s number, and opened it at the right place. “Read that, sir,” he said, with something in his manner which looked like virtuous indignation.

Mr. Vimpany found himself confronted by a letter addressed to the editor. It was signed by an eminent physician, whose portrait had appeared in the first serial part of the new work — accompanied by a brief memoir of his life, which purported to be written by himself. Not one line of the autobiography (this celebrated person declared) had proceeded from his pen. Mr. Vimpany had impudently published an imaginary memoir, full of false reports and scandalous inventions — and this after he had been referred to a trustworthy source for the necessary particulars. Stating these facts, the indignant physician cautioned readers to beware of purchasing a work which, so far as he was concerned, was nothing less than a fraud on the public.

“If you can answer that letter, sir,” Mr. Paul Boldside resumed, “the better it will be, I can tell you, for the sale of your publication.”

Mr. Vimpany made a reckless reply: “I want to know how the thing sells. Never mind the letter.”

“Never mind the letter?” the junior partner repeated. “A positive charge of fraud is advanced by a man at the head of his profession against a work which we have published — and you say, Never mind the letter.”

The rough customer of the Boldsides struck his fist on the table. “Bother the letter! I insist on knowing what the sale is.”

Still preserving his dignity, Mr. Paul (like Mr. Peter) rang for the clerk, and briefly gave an order. “Mr. Vimpany’s account,” he said — and proceeded to admonish Mr. Vimpany himself.

“You appear, sir, to have no defence of your conduct to offer. Our firm has a reputation to preserve. When I have consulted with my brother, we shall be under the disagreeable necessity —”

Here (as he afterwards told his brother) the publisher was brutally interrupted by the author:

“If you will have it,” said this rude man, “here it is in two words. The doctor’s portrait is the likeness of an ass. As he couldn’t do it himself, I wanted materials for writing his life. He referred me to the year of his birth, the year of his marriage, the y............