"You don't get him?" inquired Mr. Walpole.

"No," I said, "I can't see him at all."

"You can't see him?" queried Mr. Walpole.

More Milton, I perceived. "I quite fail," I said, "to appreciate the
gentleman's writings."

Mr. Walpole got that.

"Fortitude" had done him very well. The idea of Russia had always
fascinated him; he had enough money to run him for a couple of years,
and he was leaving shortly for Russia. "Is there any one here you
would like me to help you to see?" he asked. Queer way for a gentleman
to treat a probable crook. "Have you met Mr. James?" Walpole was very
strong with Mr. James, it seemed.

Read aloud a letter just received from Mr. James, which he had been
fingering, to show that his informal, epistolary style was identical
with that of his recent autobiographical writings, which we had been
discussing. "Bennett, of course you should see Arnold Bennett." Great
friend of Walpole's. "And Mrs. Belloc Lowndes," said Mr. Walpole, "you
really must know her; knows as much about the writing game as any one
in England. I'll write those three letters to-night."

Suddenly he asked me if I were married. "All Americans are," was his
comment. He had to be going. Some stupid affair, he said, for the
evening. We walked together around into the Strand. "Well, good-bye,"
said Mr. Walpole, extending his hand, "I've got to beat it now."