He dawned on me in the spring of 1906, a stocky, sturdy, penetrative temperament¹ of not more than twenty-four or-five years of age, steady of eye, rather aloof² and yet pervasive³ and bristling⁴; a devouring⁵ type. Without saying much, and seeming to take anything I had to say with a grain of salt, he managed to impress himself on me at once. Frankly⁶, I liked him very much, although I could see at a glance that he was not so very much impressed with me. I was an older man than he by, say, ten years, an editor of an unimportant magazine, newly brought in (which he did not know) to turn it into something better. In order to earn a few dollars he had undertaken to prepare for the previous editor a most ridiculous article, some silly thing about newspaper writing as a career for women. It had been ordered or encouraged, and I felt that it was but just that it should be paid for.