Then, sir, much as I regret it, I must refuse to obey you. In August, 1861, I wrote another novel for the Cornhill Magazine. It was a short story, about one volume in length, and was called The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson. In this I attempted a style for which I certainly was not qualified, and to which I never had again recourse. It was meant to be funny, was full of slang, and was intended as a satire on the ways of trade. Still I think that there is some good fun it it, but I have heard no one else express such an opinion. I do not know that I ever heard any opinion expressed on it, except by the publisher, who kindly remarked that he did not think it was equal to my usual work. Though he had purchased the copyright, he did not republish the story in a book form till 1870, and then it passed into the world of letters sub silentio. I do not know that it was ever criticised or ever read. I received 锟?00 for it. From that time to this I have been paid at about that rate for my work 鈥旓俊600 for the quantity contained in an ordinary novel volume, or 锟?000 for a long tale published in twenty parts, which is equal in length to five such volumes. I have occasionally, I think, received something more than this, never I think less for any tale, except when I have published my work anonymously. 7 Having said so much, I need not further specify the prices as I mention the books as they were written. I will, however, when I am completing this memoir, give a list of all the sums I have received for my literary labours. I think that Brown, Jones and Robinson was the hardest bargain I ever sold to a publisher. After supper Denton took out a cigar, and began to smoke in the office of the inn. Oliver enquired of the landlord: 鈥榊ou are wasting your time and mine, Miss Propert,鈥?he said, 鈥榠f you do not listen.鈥? They went in to dinner presently, Captain Hulbert and Isola, Mr. Colfox and Allegra. Tho table was a small oval, at which five people made a snug little party. There was a central mass of white chrysanthemums, a cheerful glow of coloured Venetian glass, delicatest pink and jade-green, under the light of a hanging lamp. John Hulbert looked round him with a pleased expression, taking in the flowers, the glass, the cream-white china, the lamplight, everything; and then the two fair young faces, one pale and pensive, the other aglow with the delight of life, eagerly expectant of new ideas. 鈥極rder it for me, please. The man could draw, couldn鈥檛 he? Look at the design of embroidery on the coat of that fellow kneeling there. There鈥檚 nothing messy about that. But it doesn鈥檛 seem much of a poem as far as I can judge. Not my idea of poetry; there鈥檚 more poetry in the prose of the Morte d鈥橝rthur. Take a cigarette and make yourself comfortable.鈥? avttv手机版天堂AV Yes; we will lie down together. It is treating me rather like a criminal; or, at any rate, like a person whose word cannot be believed.