"I live in the apartment on top of this building here at the back of us."
A sudden light that seemed that of recognition came into the other's face. George observed it.
"Have you remembered where we met?"
"No, sir. No, indeed," said the other hastily. "It has entirely escaped me." He took a sip of ice water. "I recall, however, that you are an artist."
"That's right. You are not one, by any chance?"
"I am a poet."
"A poet?" George tried to conceal his somewhat natural surprise. "Where does your stuff appear mostly?"
"I have published nothing as yet, Mr. Finch," replied the other sadly.
"Tough luck. I have never sold a picture."
"Too bad."