The Interviewer hesitated. The names sounded as if he had heard them. “Not so well as I mean to before going to Rome,” he answered. “May I ask how long you lived in Rome?”
“Long enough to know something of what is to be seen in it. No one should go there without careful preparation beforehand. You are familiar with Vasari, of course?”
The Interviewer felt a slight moisture on his forehead. He took out his handkerchief. “It is a warm day,” he said. “I have not had time to read all—the works I mean to. I have had too much writing to do, myself, to find all the time for reading and study I could have wished.”
“In what literary occupation have you been engaged, if you will pardon my inquiry? said Maurice.
“I am connected with the press. I understood that you were a man of letters, and I hoped I might have the privilege of hearing from your own lips some account of your literary experiences.”
“Perhaps that might be interesting, but I think I shall reserve it for my autobiography. You said you were connected with the press. Do I understand that you are an author?”
By this time the Interviewer had come to the conclusion that it was a very warm day. He did not seem to be getting hold of his pitcher by the right handle, somehow. But he could not help answering Maurice's very simple question.
“If writing for a newspaper gives one a right to be called an author, I may call myself one. I write for the 'People's Perennial and Household Inquisitor'.”
“Are you the literary critic of that well-known journal, or do you manage the political column?”
“I am a correspondent from different places and on various matters of interest.”