I got out of the car and followed the man through a dark hall into a large, low room, at one end of which a fire was burning briskly in a huge stone fireplace. In the center of the room was a table where we sat down to a dinner of delicious hot biscuits and a great pot of honey. "These biscuits are fine," I said. "They are." I ate another in silence. "And the honey is exquisite." "It is." "Do you keep bees?" "Yes, millions of them." "Do you keep any other stock?" I asked, thinking a glass of milk would taste fine. "Yes, a blind cat." "Do you find the bees profitable?" "No, I keep them for company." "Why do you live in this lonesome place?" "To avoid automobilists." I ate three more biscuits, drowned in honey, then the silence became unbearable. "Do you do anything else besides keep bees?" "I read." "That is interesting. What do you read?" "Books." "Ah!" I said, "perhaps you write also." "I do." "What do you write?" "Books." We finished the meal in silence, then my host arose and cleared the table. Meanwhile I wandered about the big room and glanced at the titles on the bookshelves. I was amazed at the catholicity of his taste. Side by side, with Godesius was "In His Steps"; leaning against Schopenhauer's "_Die Welt Als Wille Und Vorstellung_," was a popular novel of the day. Thus made to realize that my host was a person of some caliber, and aspiring to pursue his acquaintance upon an intellectual plane, I stepped forward, as he came through the door, and extended my hand, saying: "My name is Harold Hersey." "What of it?" he said, and turned to adjust a kerosene lamp. Then he came forward and extended his hand. "I will not say I am glad to meet you until I find out that I am." "Your name?" I inquired. "Dan Spain." "That sounds like a nom de plume," I ventured. "It is." Feeling that there was nothing further that I could say, I pulled out my pipe and seated myself before the fire. Dan Spain settled into a chair nearby. "The fact that your name is Harold Hersey means nothing to me," he remarked, "but as I presume that you will spend the night here, I might be able to make it less disagreeable for you if I knew your trade or occupation." I have always been a little sensitive about revealing my profession to strangers, because, unfortunately, some men do not regard it highly; so I replied: "What would you judge me to be from my appearance?" "A cigar salesman." I hastened to controvert him. "Looks are deceiving," I said, "I am a writer." So I read him the following. There was a curious silence afterwards: _When the limpid highbrows chatter And their candlelights are low; When their purple souls are bitter From discussing thus and so, And the Lucy Stoners twitter In some frowsy studio;_