‘We shall not be here. No,’ he droned, ‘but the Museum will still be just where it is. And the reading-room, just where it is. And people will be able to go and read there.’ He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, ‘You think I haven’t minded.’ ‘Minded what, Soames?’ ‘Neglect. Failure.’ ‘FAILURE?’ I said heartily. ‘Failure?’ I repeated vaguely. ‘Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that’s quite another matter. Of course you haven’t been--appreciated. But what then? Any artist who--who gives--’ What I wanted to say was, ‘Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition’; but the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery, a misery so genuine and so unmasked, my lips would not say the words. And then--he said them for me. I flushed. ‘That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘How did you know?’ ‘It’s what you said to me three years ago, when “Fungoids” was published.’ I flushed the more. I need not have done so at all, for ‘It’s the only important thing I ever heard you say,’ he continued. ‘And I’ve never forgotten it. It’s a true thing. It’s a horrible truth. But--d’you remember what I answered? I said “I don’t care a sou for recognition.” And you believed me. You’ve gone on believing I’m above that sort of thing. You’re shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist’s faith in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy.... You’ve never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the’--his voice broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. ‘Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn’t know that people are visiting his grave--visiting his birthplace--putting up tablets to him--unveiling statues of him. A dead man can’t read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life then--just for a few hours--and go to the reading-room, and READ! Or better still: if I could be projected, now, at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I’d sell myself body and soul to the devil, for that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: “SOAMES, ENOCH” endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, biographies’--but here he was interrupted by a sudden loud creak of the chair at the next table. Our neighbour had half risen from his place. He was leaning towards us, apologetically intrusive. ‘Excuse--permit me,’ he said softly. ‘I have been unable not to hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon’--he spread wide his hands--‘might I, as the phrase is, “cut in”?’