After a while I finished and put the proofs away with a sigh of relief.
"So you're an author too?" he said.
"Yes," I said, though I didn't want to talk at all.
"You wouldn't have thought I was one," he went on, "would you? What would you have said I did for a living?"
I am too old to guess such things. One nearly always gives offence. Moreover, I have seen too many authors to show any surprise.
"I'm not only a writer," he said, "but I dare say I'm better known than you."
"That's not difficult," I said.
"I am read by thousands—very likely millions—every day."
"This is very strange," I said. "Millions? Who are you, then? Not—no, you can't be. You haven't a red beard; you are not in knickerbockers; you don't recall Shakspeare. Nor can you be Mrs. Barclay. And yet, of course, I must have heard your name. Might I hear it again, now?"
"My name is unknown," he said. "All my work is anonymous."