“Decidedly,” agreed Carroll, with an odd, reflective expression.
“If the public want your song or your novel or your speech, they will buy it, or your dance, and if they don't they won't, and you cannot make them. You have to sell what the public want to buy, for you yourself are only a unit in a goodly number of millions.”
“And yet how extremely all-pervading that unit can feel sometimes,” Carroll said, with a laugh.
He was silent again, puffing at his cigar, and again Anderson, leaning back opposite and also smoking, wondered why he was there. Then Carroll removed his cigar and spoke. His voice was a little constrained, but he looked at Anderson full in the face.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said, “I want to know if you will kindly tell me how much I owe you, for I am one of the consumers of butter and eggs.”
Anderson continued to smoke a second before answering. “I cannot possibly tell you here, Mr. Carroll,” he replied then.
“Of course I know I should have written and asked for the bill,” Carroll said, “but I knew some had been paid, and—you have been most kind, and—”
Anderson waited.
“In short,” said Carroll, speaking quickly and brusquely, “I am under a cloud here, and—your mother called to see my daughter this afternoon, and I thought that possibly you would pardon me if I put it all on a little different basis.”
Carroll stopped, and again Anderson waited. He was becoming more and more puzzled.