"Crocker," said he, "it's the very deuce to be famous, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is," I replied curtly, wondering what he was driving at;
"I have never tried it."
"An ordinary man, such as you, can't conceive of the torture a fellow in
my position is obliged to go through the year round, but especially in
the summer, when one wishes to go off on a rest. You know what I mean,
of course."
"I am afraid I do not," I answered, in a vain endeavor to embarrass him.
"You're thicker than when I used to know you, then," he returned with
candor. "To tell the truth, Crocker, I often wish I were back at the
law, and had never written a line. I am paying the penalty of fame.
Wherever I go I am hounded to death by the people who have read my books,
and they want to dine and wine me for the sake of showing me off at their
houses. I am heartily sick and tired of it all; you would be if you had
to go through it. I could stand a winter, but the worst comes
in the summer, when one meets the women who fire all sorts of
socio-psychological questions at one for solution, and who have
suggestions for stories." He shuddered.
"And what has all this to do with your coming here?" I cut in, strangling
a smile.
He twisted his cigarette at an acute angle with his face, and looked at
me out of the corner of his eye.
"I'll try to be a little plainer," he went on, sighing as one unused to
deal with people who require crosses on their t's. "I've been worried
almost out of my mind with attention--nothing but attention the whole
time.
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