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I had done a few things and earned a few pence-I had perhaps even had time to begin tothink I was finer than was perceived by the patronising; but when I take the little measureof my course (a fidgety habit, for it's none of the longest yet) I count my real start from theevening George Corvick, breathless and worried, came in to ask me a service. He had donemore things than I, and earned more pence, though there were chances for cleverness Ithought he sometimes missed. I could only however that evening declare to him that henever missed one for kindness. There was almost rapture in hearing it proposed to me toprepare for The Middle_, the organ of our lucubrations, so called from the position in theweek of its day of appearance, an article for which he had made himself responsible and ofwhich, tied up with a stout string, he laid on my table the subject. I pounced upon myopportunity-that is on the first volume of it-and paid scant attention to my friend'sexplanation of his appeal. What explanation could be more to the point than my obviousfitness for the task? I had written on Hugh Vereker, but never a word in The Middle, wheremy dealings were mainly with the ladies and the minor poets. This was his new novel, anadvance copy, and whatever much or little it should do for his reputation I was clear on thespot as to what it should do for mine. Moreover, if I always read him as soon as I could gethold of him, I had a particular reason for wishing to read him now: I had accepted aninvitation to Bridges for the following Sunday, and it had been mentioned in Lady Jane'snote that Mr. Vereker was to be there. I was young enough to have an emotion aboutmeeting a man of his renown, and innocent enough to believe the occasion would demandthe display of an acquaintance with his "last.