Again on another occasion I had to pay a visit of business to a
remote house in the country. A good-natured friend descanted upon
the excitement it would be to the household to entertain a living
author, and how eagerly my utterances would be listened to. I was
received not only without respect but with obvious boredom. In the
course of the afternoon I discovered that I was supposed to be a
solicitor's clerk, but when a little later it transpired what my
real occupations were, I was not displeased to find that no member
of the party had ever heard of my existence, or was aware that I
had ever published a book, and when I was questioned as to what I
had written, no one had ever come across anything that I had
printed, until at last I soared into some transient distinction by
the discovery that my brother was the author of Dodo.
I cannot help feeling that there is something gently humorous about
this good-humoured indication that the whole civilised world is not
engaged in the pursuit of literature, and that one's claims to
consideration depend upon one's social merits.
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