ll "inspiration," for
lack of a truer word. Now here he was, just across the table. It was the
fairy tale come true.

Genung said:

"You should write his life."

His remark seemed a pleasant courtesy, and was put aside as such. When
he persisted I attributed it to the general bloom of the occasion, and a
little to the wine, maybe, for the dinner was in its sweetest stage just
then--that happy, early stage when the first glass of champagne, or the
second, has proved its quality. He urged, in support of his idea, the
word that Munro had brought concerning the Nast book, but nothing of
what he said kindled any spark of hope. I could not but believe that
some one with a larger equipment of experience, personal friendship, and
abilities had already been selected for the task. By and by the speaking
began--delightful, intimate speaking in that restricted circle--and the
matter went out of my mind.

When the dinner had ended, and we were drifting about the table in
general talk, I found an opportunity to say a word to the guest of
the evening about his Joan of Arc, which I had recently re-read. To my
happiness, he detained me while he told me the long-ago incident which
had led to his interest, not only in the martyred girl, but in all
literature. I think we broke up soon after, and descended to the lower
rooms. At any rate, I presently found the faithful Charles Genung
privately reasserting to me the proposition that I should undertake the
biography of Mark Twain. Perhaps it was the brief sympathy established
by the name of Joan of Arc, perhaps it was only Genung's insistent
purpose--his faith, if I may be permitted the word. Whatever it was,
there came an impulse, in the instant of bidding good-by to our guest of
honor, which prompted me to say:

"May I call to see you, Mr. Clemens, some day?"

And something--dating from the primal atom, I suppose--prompted him to
answer:

"Yes, come soon."

This was on Wednesday night, or rather on Thursday morning, for it was
past midnight, and a day later I made an appointment with his secretary
to call on Saturday.

I can say truly that I set out with no more than the barest hope of
success, and wondering if I should have the courage, when I saw him,
even to suggest the thought in my mind. I know I did not have the
courage to confide in Genung that I had made the appointment--I was so
sure it would fail. I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue and was shown into that
long library and d