of the evening, who by a custom of the Players is placed at the side and not at the distant end of the long table.  Regarding him at leisure, I saw that he seemed to be in full health.  He had an alert, rested look; his complexion had the tints of a miniature painting.  Lit by the soft glow of the shaded candles, outlined against the richness of the shadowed walls, he made a figure of striking beauty.  I could not take my eyes from it, for it stirred in me the farthest memories.  I saw the interior of a farm-house sitting-room in the Middle West where I had first heard the name of Mark Twain, and where night after night a group had gathered around the evening lamp to hear read aloud the story of the Innocents on their Holy Land pilgrimage, which to a boy of eight had seemed only a wonderful poem and fairy-tale.  To Charles Harvey Genung, who sat next to me, I whispered something of this, and how during the thirty-six years since then no one had meant to me quite what Mark Twain had meant—­in literature and, indeed, in life.  Now here he was just across the table.  It was a fairy-tale come true.

Genung said:  “You should write his life.”

It seemed to me no more than a pleasant remark, but he came back to it again and again, trying to encourage me with the word that Munro had brought back concerning the biography of Nast.  However, nothing of what he said had kindled any spark of hope.  I put him off by saying that certainly some one of longer and closer friendship and larger experience had been selected for the work.  Then the speaking began, and the matter went out of my mind.  Later in the evening, when we had left our seats and were drifting about the table, I found a chance to say a word to our guest concerning his “Joan of Arc,” which I had recently re-read.  To my happiness, he told me that long-ago incident—­the stray leaf from Joan’s life, blown to him by the wind—­which had led to his interest in all literature.  Then presently I was with Genung again and he was still insisting that I write the life of Mark Twain.  It may have been his faithful urging, it may have been the quick sympathy kindled by the name of “Joan of Arc”; whatever it was, in the instant of bidding good-by to our guest I was prompted to add: 

“May I call to see you, Mr. Clemens, some day?” And something—­to this day I do not know what—­prompted him to answer: 

“Yes, come soon.”

Two days later, by appointment with his secretary, I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue, and waited in the library to be summoned to his room.  A few moments later I was ascending the long stairs, wondering why I had come on so useless an errand, trying to think up an excuse for having come at all.