“What is the book, Hyacinthus?” asked the stranger, and his voice was so winning and so melodious in the shadowy bookshop that Michael immediately fell into the easiest of conversations.
“Fond of books?” asked the stranger. “Oh, by the way, my name is Wilmot, Arthur Wilmot.”
Something in Wilmot’s manner made Michael suppose that he ought to be familiar with the name, and he tried to recall it.
“What’s your name?” the stranger went on.
Michael told his name, and also his school, and before very long a good deal about himself.
“I live near you,” said Mr. Wilmot. “We’ll walk along presently. I’d like you to dine with me one night soon. When?”
“Oh, any time,” said Michael, trying to speak as if invitations to dinner occurred to him three or four times a day.
“Here’s my card,” said the stranger. “You’d better show it to your mother—so that she’ll know it’s all right. I’m a writer, you know.”
“Oh, yes,” Michael vaguely agreed.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of my stuff. I don’t publish much. Sometimes I read my poems to Interior people.”