I was sitting by Anderson's fire the other day when his telephone bell
rang. He made the usual insincere exclamation of disgust--as insincere
as the horror we simulate when a bundle of letters is brought into
the room, to have letters and to be called up on the telephone being
really adventures and therefore welcome; and he then crossed the room
to answer the call.
"Shall I go?" I asked, thinking that he might prefer to be alone.
"Oh, no," he said, and I remained. I was not trying to overhear, but
it couldn't be helped.