"I read."
"That is interesting. What do you read?"
"Books."
"Ah!" I said, "perhaps you write also."
"I do."
"What do you write?"
"Books."
We finished the meal in silence, then my host arose and cleared the table. Meanwhile I wandered about the big room and glanced at the titles on the bookshelves. I was amazed at the catholicity of his taste. Side by side, with Godesius was "In His Steps"; leaning against Schopenhauer's "Die Welt Als Wille Und Vorstellung," was a popular novel of the day.
Thus made to realize that my host was a person of some caliber, and aspiring to pursue his acquaintance upon an intellectual plane, I stepped forward, as he came through the door, and extended my hand, saying: "My name is Harold Hersey."
"What of it?" he said, and turned to adjust a kerosene lamp. Then he came forward and extended his hand. "I will not say I am glad to meet you until I find out that I am."