“I don’t get enough new clothes to worry about. Mostly I think of my Work.”

“Work?”

“I am a writer,” I said in a low, ernest tone.

“No! How—how amazing. What do you write?”

“I’m on a play now.”

“A Comedy?”

“No. A Tradgedy. How can I write a Comedy when a play must always end in a catastrofe? The book says all plays end in Crisis, Dénouement and Catastrofe.”

“I can’t beleive it,” he said. “But, to tell you a Secret, I never read any books about Plays.”

“We are not all gifted from berth, as you are,” I observed, not to merely please him, but because I considered it the simple Truth.

He pulled out his watch and looked at it in the moonlight.