"Your name?" I inquired.
"Dan Spain."
"That sounds like a nom de plume," I ventured.
"It is."
Feeling that there was nothing further that I could say, I pulled out my pipe and seated myself before the fire.
Dan Spain settled into a chair nearby. "The fact that your name is Harold Hersey means nothing to me," he remarked, "but as I presume that you will spend the night here, I might be able to make it less disagreeable for you if I knew your trade or occupation."
I have always been a little sensitive about revealing my profession to strangers, because, unfortunately, some men do not regard it highly; so I replied: "What would you judge me to be from my appearance?"
"A cigar salesman."
I hastened to controvert him. "Looks are deceiving," I said, "I am a writer."
So I read him the following. There was a curious silence afterwards: