'What name?' he whispered, glancing round, apparently not quite sure whether they were alone and unobserved.
He seemed to be trying to awake from his dream, to recall the mundane and the actual, without success.
He said, still whispering, that the little play pleased him.
'Let me see,' he reflected. 'Didn't Doxey say that you had written other things?'
'Several books,' Henry informed him.
'Books? Ah!' Mr. Pilgrim had the air of trying to imagine what sort of thing books were. 'That's very interesting. Novels?'
'Yes,' said Henry.
Mr. Pilgrim, opening his magnificent chest and passing a hand through his brown hair, grew impressively humble. 'You must excuse my ignorance,' he explained. 'I am afraid I'm not quite abreast of modern literature. I never read.' And he repeated firmly: 'I never read. Not even the newspapers. What time have I for reading?' he whispered sadly. 'In my brougham, I snatch a glance at the contents-bills of the evening papers. No more.'
Henry had the idea that even to be ignored by John Pilgrim was more flattering than to be admired by the rest of mankind.
Mr. Pilgrim rose and walked several times across the room; then addressed Henry mysteriously and imposingly: