Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her.
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