ey would exclaim, were not _we_ aliens too?
Were not fifty per cent of our acquaintances in the United States
aliens? No, it was impossible. They would not understand. And if they
would not understand that, how could they be expected to appreciate in
all its puzzling simplicity his ejaculation: "An author? Ah!"

It occurred to me with some bitterness that a brutal editor in San
Francisco had once complained of my inability to interview people with
any success. "God A'mighty! Why the h--l didn't you _ask_, man!" And to
tell the truth, I am not designed by nature for the cut-throat business
of interviewing. To stand before a stranger, note-book in hand, and pry
into his personal record, always seems to me only a form of infamy
midway between blackmail and burglary. There is to me something in any
man's personality that is sacred, something before which there should be
a veil, never to be drawn aside save in secret places. An effete whim,
no doubt. At any rate it explained why I had enjoyed no success as an
interviewer, why I had come away from Mr. Carville without extracting
from him his age, his income, his position, the names of his employers,
his ship, his tailor or his God. Nothing of all this I knew, so ineptly
had I managed my chances to obtain it. And yet I felt that, even if I
did not possess any concrete morsel of exciting news, I had discovered
not only that he had a story, but that he was willing to tell it. And as
I fell asleep a conviction came to me that whatever his story might be,
however sordid or romantic, I would pass no judgment upon it until I
perceived in its genuine significance, the chapter that lay behind that
strange utterance, "An author? Ah!"

* * * * *

The next morning I slept late, until past seven in fact. It had ever
been an axiom with us that the indolence attributed to the "artistic
temperament" was a foolish tradition. Creative power undoubtedly comes
late in the day and in the still night-watches; often I had planned a
whole book while in bed; but there are many things to do in literature
and art besides creation--research, reading, preparing of palettes,
writing of letters and so on, that can be better done early. So we
breakfasted at half after seven as a rule. I managed to bathe and shave
before Mac's _reveille_ sounded on the piano.

As I opened my napkin I saw that Bill had something of importance to
impart, and it came out at once.

"He's mendi