She couldn't remember his name."
"It's difficult to remember. He's a Russian Jew. Schrioski, is his
name." At the head of the table I felt Kitty squirm, knew she was
twisting her feet in fear and indignation. I turned to her English
guest.
"I have another friend who will be so glad to know I have met you, Mr.
Garrott. He is one of your most intelligent and intense admirers. He
has read, I think, everything you've written."
Absorbed in his salad, evidently new and to his liking, Mr. Garrott was
not impressed by, or appreciative of, my attempt to follow Kitty's
instructions. With any reservations of my bad taste in talking shop I
would have agreed, still, something was due Kitty. "He tells me"--I
refused to be ignored--"that he keeps an advance order for everything
you write; buys your books as soon as they are published."
"Buys them!" With the only quick movement he had made, Mr. Garrott
turned to me. "I'd like to meet him. I'm glad to know there's
somebody in America who buys and reads my books. Usually those who buy
don't read, and those who read don't buy.
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