"Mark Twain's daughter," he continued, "replied that he was always like that—'when they had company.'"
He looked remorselessly at me for his reward of laughter. Since he was my guest he got it, but——
And then last week he arrived again, on his 1914 trip, and he is here now, or perhaps he is in Paris. In Europe, at any rate. He told me once more that across the Atlantic Mr. Henry James is no longer thought of as an American; that Mr. Jack London, it seems, is becoming one of the most popular of writers; that Ella Wheeler Wilcox sells probably more copies of her poetry than any English writer sells stories. He had had the pleasure of meeting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in New York recently, but when Mr. Arnold Bennett was there he missed him, to his great regret. America was still feeling the loss of Mark Twain. By the way, that was a good story which Mark Twain used to tell against himself. A visitor——
But this time I was too clever for him. I gave a preconcerted signal to a waiter, who hurried up to tell me I was wanted on the telephone. When I returned it was to say good-bye.
And now I am safe till next summer; but last evening I met a lady who had been taken in to dinner by the American a few days ago. "A little bit pompous, perhaps," she said, "but he told me such a delightful story about Mark Twain that I should like to meet him again."
Passenger. "It's curious how these seagulls follow a steamer. Do they go far?"
Boatman. "Ay, sometimes, but they'll not follow her far; she's an Aberdeen boat."