this late in the season!"

Moonson was afraid at first that his silence might discourage the
writer, but he did not know writers ...

"It's good to have someone to talk to," the writer went on. "I've been
sitting here all day trying to write. I'll tell you something you may
not know--you can go to the finest hotels, and you can open case after
case of the finest wine, and you still can't get started sometimes."

The writer's face seemed suddenly to age. Fear came into his eyes and he
raised the bottle to his lips, faced away from his guest as he drank as
if ashamed of what he must do to escape despair every time he faced his
fear.

He was trying to write himself back into fame. His greatest moment had
come years before when his golden pen had glorified a generation of
madcaps.

For one deathless moment his genius had carried him to the heights, and
a white blaze of publicity had given him a halo of glory. Later had come
lean and bitter years until finally his reputation dwindled like a
gutted candle in a wintry room at midnight.

He could still write but now fear and remorse walked with him and would
give him no peace. He was cruelly afraid most of the time.

Moonson listened to the writer's thoughts in heart-stricken
silence--thoughts so tragic they seemed out of keeping with the natural
and beautiful rhythms of his speech. He had never imagined that a
sensitive and imaginative man--an artist--could be so completely
abandoned by the society his genius had helped to enrich.

Back and forth the writer paced, baring his inmost thoughts ... His wife
was desperately ill and the future looked completely black. How could he
summon the strength of will to go on, let alone to write?

He said fiercely, "It's all right for you to talk--"

He stopped, seeming to realize for the first time that the big man
sitting in an easy chair by the window had made no attempt to speak.

It seemed incredible, but the big man had listened in complete silence,
and with such quiet assurance that his silence had taken on an eloquence
that inspired absolute trust.

He had always known there were a few people like that in the world,
people whose sympathy and understanding you could take for granted.
There was a fearlessness in such people which made them stand out from
the crowd, stone-markers in a desert waste to lend assurance to a tired
wayfarer by its sturdy permanence, its sun-mirroring strength.

There were a few people like that