In August of last year I was doomed to London owing to the frivolous holiday proclivities of certain fellow-workers, and again my Baltimore migrant was here, and again we met for our single _tete-a-tete_. He looked, he said, on a year as wasted, unless a part of it was spent in London and Paris. He was exactly as he had been; his voice had the same slow mirthlessness and it uttered the same flat definitive comments. He could not be surprised or shocked or amused. He had taken the world's measure and was now chiefly occupied in adding to his collection of fine men and lovely-minded women. I made an effort to get the conversation to other than American literary personages, but it was useless. To discuss Mr. ROOSEVELT he was unwilling. The name of HEARST--I mean Mr. HEARST--touched no live wire, as it does with a few of his countrymen. He had merely heard of Mr. BRISBANE, but had no information. Mr. WILSON was doing well, he thought, on the whole. Reaching books at last, we agreed again that it was a pity that Mr. JAMES LANE ALLEN wrote so little nowadays and that Mr. HOWELLS had become so silent. Mr. HOWELLS, it seemed, had felt the death of his old friend, Mr. CLEMENS--MARK TWAIN--very deeply. Had I ever heard, he wondered, that story of MARK TWAIN about a reply made to one of his visitors by his daughter? "Yes, I have," I said. "The visitor," he went on, "had asked her if her father was always in the jovial and witty vein in which he had been during his--the visitor's--stay." "Yes, I know," I said. "MARK TWAIN'S daughter," he continued, "replied that he was always like that--'when they had company.'" He looked remorselessly at me for his reward of laughter. Since he was my guest he got it, but---- And then last week he arrived again, on his 1914 trip, and he is here now, or perhaps he is in Paris. In Europe, at any rate. He told me once more that across the Atlantic Mr. HENRY JAMES is no longer thought of as an American; that Mr. JACK LONDON, it seems, is becoming one of the most popular of writers; that ELLA WHEELER WILCOX sells probably more copies of her poetry than any English writer sells stories. He had had the pleasure of meeting Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE in New York recently, but when Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT was there he missed him, to his great regret. America was still feeling the loss of MARK TWAIN. By the way, that was a good story which MARK TWAIN used to tell against himself. A visitor---- But this time I was too clever for him. I gave a preconcerted signal to a waiter, who hurried up to tell me I was wanted on the telephone. When I returned it was to say good-bye. And now I am safe till next summer; but last evening I met a lady who had been taken in to dinner by the American a few days ago. "A little bit pompous, perhaps," she said, "but he told me such a delightful story about MARK TWAIN that I should like to meet him again." * * * * *