"Well, you will, and he will dim even those ruddy fires and look like a transfigured Adonis backed against a pink sunset." * * * * * There on that bench we struck out a new phrase--one or the other of us, I don't remember which--"submerged renown." Variations were discussed: "submerged fame," "submerged reputation," and so on, and a choice was made; "submerged renown" was elected, I believe. This important matter rose out of an incident which had been happening to Stevenson in Albany. While in a book-shop or book-stall there he had noticed a long rank of small books, cheaply but neatly gotten up, and bearing such titles as "Davis's Selected Speeches," "Davis's Selected Poetry," Davis's this and Davis's that and Davis's the other thing; compilations, every one of them, each with a brief, compact, intelligent and useful introductory chapter by this same Davis, whose first name I have forgotten. Stevenson had begun the matter with this question: "Can you name the American author whose fame and acceptance stretch widest in the States?" I thought I could, but it did not seem to me that it would be modest to speak out, in the circumstances. So I diffidently said nothing. Stevenson noticed, and said-- "Save your delicacy for another time--you are not the one. For a shilling you can't name the American author of widest note and popularity in the States. But I can." Then he went on and told about that Albany incident. He had inquired of the shopman-- "Who is this Davis?" The answer was-- "An author whose books have to have freight-trains to carry them, not baskets. Apparently you have not heard of him?" Stevenson said no, this was the first time. The man said--