(2081)
The grace of modesty seems sometimes rare and its exhibition is always pleasing. An instance of modest reticence is given in this concerning a well-known author:
They had met in Brooklyn at a little evening party—the young man and an older one—and were coming back to Manhattan together. The young man inquired the elder’s vocation in life, and the elder replied that he had practised law for eighteen years.
“And, later,” he added, “I have done a little writing.”
“Ever get anything published?” asked the young man.
“Yes, a few things,” replied the elder.
“Write under your own name?”
“Yes.”
“By the way, I don’t believe I quite caught your name.”