Poor Ed.! It was quite a blow for him, and, on the level, I was a bit disappointed myself.
But I lost no time mooning over my lost chance to dine with royalty, for that afternoon I was going to meet Wells. Going to Stoll's; I was eagerly looking forward to a quiet little party where I could get off somewhere with Wells and have a long talk.
I meet H. G. Wells.
As I drew near the office, however, I noticed crowds, the same sort of crowds that I had been dodging since my exit from Los Angeles. It was a dense mass of humanity packed around the entire front of the building, waiting for something that had been promised them. And then I knew that it was an arranged affair and that, so far as a chat was concerned, Wells and I were just among those present, even though we were the guests of honour.
I remember keenly the crush in the elevator, a tiny little affair built for about six people and carrying nearer sixty. I get the viewpoint of a sardine quite easily. Upstairs it is not so bad, and I am swept into a room where there are only a few people and the door is then closed. I look all around, trying to spot Wells. There he is.
I notice his beautiful, dark-blue eyes first. Keen and kindly they are, twinkling just now as though he were inwardly smiling, perhaps at my very apparent embarrassment.
Before we can get together, however, there comes forward the camera brigade with its flashlight ammunition. Would we pose together? Wells looks hopeless. I must show that before cameras I am very much of a person, and I take the initiative with the lens peepers.
We are photoed sitting, standing, hats on and off, and in every other stereotyped position known to camera men.