`It's what you said to me three years ago, when "Fungoids" was
published.' I flushed the more. I need not have done so at all,
for `It's the only important thing I ever heard you say,' he
continued. `And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a
horrible truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said "I
don't care a sou for recognition." And you believed me.
You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of thing. You're
shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like
me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in the
verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy.... You've
never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the'--his voice
broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I
had never known in him. `Posterity! What use is it to ME? A
dead man doesn't know that people are visiting his grave--
visiting his birthplace--putting up tablets to him--unveiling
statues of him. A dead man can't read the books that are written
about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could
come back to life then--just for a few hours--and go to the
reading-room, and READ! Or better still: if I could be
projected, now, at this moment, into that future, into that
reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body
and soul to the devil, for that! Think of the pages and pages in
the catalogue: "SOAMES, ENOCH" endlessly--endless editions,
commentaries, prolegomena, biographies'--but here he was
interrupted by a sudden loud creak of the chair at the next table.
Our neighbour had half risen from his place. He was leaning
towards us, apologetically intrusive.

`Excuse--permit me,' he said softly. `I have been unable not to
hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-