Charitably inclined people as well as all other kinds of inclined people prefer their Winkelburgs more egotistic. They prefer that unfortunate ones be engrossed in their misfortunes and not go around wearing sardonic, philosophical smiles. II Winkelburg dragged along for six months. He was past fifty-five. Each time I saw him I was certain I would never see him again. I was certain he would die--drop dead while crawling across his flypaper. But he would appear. I would pretend to be vastly busy. He would sit and wait. His consideration was an affront. It said, “Oh, yes, I know you are a very busy man. You are part of the world. But Winkelburg has nothing to do. Nothing but wait. Wait until he dies. So don’t hurry. I have plenty of time.” He would never ask alms. I would have been relieved if he had. Instead he would sit and smile, and his smile would say: “Ah, my friend, you are afraid I am going to ask you for money. Don’t worry, please. I would rather die of hunger than ask you. Because it would interfere with our friendship. And I value your friendship more than a bite of food. I won’t ask you for money. I won’t bother you at all. Yes, yes, I agree with you. I ought to be dead. It would be better for everybody.” We would talk little. He would throw out a hint now and then that perhaps I could use some of his misfortunes for material. For instance, the time his two children had been burned to death. Or the time he had fallen off a street car while in a sick daze and injured his spine for life, and how he settled with the street-car company for five hundred dollars, and how he had been robbed on the way to the bank with the money a month later. I refused consistently and somewhat curtly his offer of material. This offended Winkelburg. He would pick up the day’s paper and sit reading my story through with a show of critical deliberation. Then he would put it down and look at me as if to say: “This thing you’ve written about is all right in its way. But it must be obvious to you that, from a purely literary point of view, the material I have to offer is vastly superior.” I saw that his vanity was piqued. I would not have minded this. In fact it was a bit droll. But there was his smile. Winkelburg’s smile rose above his vanity. When I had returned to the typewriter, feigning industry in the hope that the man would pick himself up and crawl away, I would catch a glimpse of the inevitable wan grimace that came to his lips and the smile would say: “Yes, yes, I understand. You refuse my material because you don’t want to get involved with me. Because you don’t want me to have any more claims on you than I have. Not that you’re afraid I’ll ask you for money. But if I gave you something you’re afraid that it would establish a closer relationship between us. I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t feel that way.”