In London Hubert made few friends.  There were some two or three men with whom he was frequently seen—­quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment consisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, or going for long walks in the country.  He was one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why it was that he was so frequently the theme of their conversation.  His simple, unaffected manners were full of suggestion, and in his writings there was always an indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate achievement.  So, long before he had succeeded in writing a play, detached scenes and occasional verses led his friends into gradual belief that he was one from whom big things might be expected.  And when the one-act play which they had all so heartily approved of was produced, and every newspaper praised it for its literary quality, the friends took pride in this public vindication of their opinion.  After the production of his play people came to see the new author, and every Saturday evening some fifteen or twenty men used to assemble in Hubert’s lodgings to drink whisky, smoke cigars, and talk drama.  Encouraged by his success, Hubert wrote Divorce.  He worked unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and when he had written the final scene, he was breaking into his last hundred pounds.  The play was refused twice, and then accepted by a theatrical speculator, to whom it seemed to afford opportunity for the exhibition of the talents of a lady he was interested in.

The success of the play was brief.  But before it was withdrawn, Hubert had sold the American rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two years he had completed a second play, which he called An Ebbing Tide.  Some of the critics argued that it contained scenes as fine as any in Divorce, but it was admitted on all sides that the interest withered in the later acts.  But the failure of the play did not shake the established belief in Hubert’s genius; it merely concentrated the admiration of those interested in the new art upon Divorce, the partial failure of which was now attributed to the acting.  If it had only been played at the Haymarket or the Lyceum, it could not have failed.

The next three years Hubert wasted in various aestheticisms.  He explained the difference between the romantic and realistic methods in the reviews; he played with a poetic drama to be called The King of the Beggars, and it was not until the close of the third year that he settled down to definite work.  Then all his energies were concentrated on a new play—­The Gipsy.  A young woman of Bohemian origin is suddenly taken with the nostalgia of the tent, and leaves her husband and her home to wander with those of her race.  He had read portions of this play to his friends, who at last succeeded in driving Montague Ford, the popular actor-manager, to Hubert’s door; and after hearing some few scenes he had offered a couple of hundred pounds in advance of fees for the completed manuscript.  ’But when can I have the manuscript?’ said Ford, as he was about to leave.  ’As soon as I can finish it,’ Hubert replied, looking at him wistfully out of pale blue-grey eyes.  ’I could finish it in a month, if I could count on not being worried by duns or disturbed by friends during that time.’