tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't read the books
that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I
could come back to life THEN--just for a few hours--and go to the
reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I could be projected
now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this
one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and soul to the devil for that! Think
of the pages and pages in the catalogue: 'Soames, Enoch'
endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies"--
But here he was interrupted by a sudden loud crack of the chair at the
next table. Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning
toward us, apologetically intrusive.

"Excuse--permit me," he said softly. "I have been unable not to
hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little
restaurant-sans-facon--might I, as the phrase is, cut in?"

I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the
kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away
with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me,
commanding a full view of Soames.

"Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London
well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very
known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly
over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil."

I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing
to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing
volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised
eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back