He turned to her with a puzzled look, and then this is what ensued:
“That is my favourite play.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t you love it the best?”
“Never read it in my life.”
“What! never read your own masterpiece!”
“No, madam. I am afraid you have made a mistake.”
“What! You do not mean to say that you are not Bernard Shaw?”
“No. I’m only Lewis Morris, the poet.”
Momentary collapse of the old lady, and amusement of my neighbour. By this time I was in fits. Shaw having telegraphed he would not come in till the meat course was over, Sir Lewis Morris had asked me if he might take his place.