"Mr. Christopher, the Head Waiter?"
"The same."
The young man shook his hair out of his vision,--which it impeded,--to a
packet from his breast, and handing it over to me, said, with his eye (or
did I dream?) fixed with a lambent meaning on me, "THE PROOFS."
Although I smelt my coat-tails singeing at the fire, I had not the power
to withdraw them. The young man put the packet in my faltering grasp,
and repeated,--let me do him the justice to add, with civility:
"THE PROOFS. A. Y. R."
With those words he departed.
A. Y. R.? And You Remember. Was that his meaning? At Your Risk. Were
the letters short for _that_ reminder? Anticipate Your Retribution. Did
they stand for _that_ warning? Out-dacious Youth Repent? But no; for
that, a O was happily wanting, and the vowel here was a A.
I opened the packet, and found that its contents were the foregoing
writings printed just as the reader (may I add the discerning reader?)
peruses them. In vain was the reassuring whisper,--A.Y.R., All the Year
Round,--it could not cancel the Proofs. Too appropriate name. The
Proofs of my having sold the Writings.
My wretchedness daily increased. I had not thought of the risk I ran,
and the defying publicity I put my head into, until all was done, and all
was in print. Give up the money to be off the bargain and prevent the
publication, I could not.
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