The young man smiled. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lagrange.
Surely, you are not the famous novelist of that name?"

"And _why_, 'surely not'?" retorted the other, again turning his face
quickly toward his companion. "Am I not distinguished enough in
appearance? Do I look like the mob? True, I am a scrawny, humpbacked
crooked-faced, scarecrow of a man--but what matters _that_, if I do not
look like the mob? What is called fame is as scrawny and humpbacked and
crooked-faced as my body--but what matters _that?_ Famous or infamous--to
not look like the mob is the thing."

It is impossible to put in print the peculiar humor of pathetic regret, of
sarcasm born of contempt, of intolerant intellectual pride, that marked
the last sentence, which was addressed to the dog, as though the speaker
turned from his human companion to a more worthy listener.

When Aaron King could find no words to reply, the novelist shot another
question at him, with startling suddenness. "Do you read my books?"

The other began a halting answer to the effect that everybody read Conrad
Lagrange's books. But the distinguished author interrupted; "Don't take
the trouble to lie--out of politeness. I shall ask you to tell me about
them and you will be in a hole."

The young man laughed as he said, with straight-forward frankness, "I have
read only one, Mr. Lagrange."

"Which one?"

"The--ah--why--the one, you know--where the husband of one woman falls in