he appearance of the Celebrity. He was
attired--for the details of his dress forced themselves upon me vividly
--in a rough-spun suit of knickerbockers, a colored-shirt having a large
and prominent gold stud, red and brown stockings of a diamond pattern,
and heavy walking-boots. And he entered with an air of assurance that
was maddening.

"My dear Crocker," he exclaimed, "you have no idea how delighted I am to
see you here!"

I rose, first placing a book-mark in Carlyle, and assured him that I was
surprised to see him here.

"Surprised to see me!" he returned, far from being damped by my manner.
"In fact, I am a little surprised to see myself here."

He sank back on the window-seat and clasped his hands behind his head.

"But first let me thank you for respecting my incognito," he said.

I tried hard to keep my temper, marvelling at the ready way he had chosen
to turn my action.

"And now," he continued, "I suppose you want to know why I came out
here." He easily supplied the lack of cordial solicitation on my part.

"Yes, I should like to know," I said.

Thus having aroused my curiosity, he took his time about appeasing it,
after the custom of his kind. He produced a gold cigarette case, offered
me a cigarette, which I refused, took one himself and blew the smoke in
rings toward the ceiling. Then, raising himself on his elbow, he drew
his features together in such a way as to lead me to believe he was about
to impart some valuable information.

"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 o