by the telephone company and when the shades of night begin to fall—well, I generally have plenty other places to browse around in besides the pages of somebody's book, you know that!
Before I lost my literary complex I used to be crazy about reading, though—Honest to McAdoo, I was a regular addict! For no reason whatsoever, I bought whole armfuls of best sellers, encyclopedias and what-not, including those pamphlets on first-class etiquette containing the answers to such burning questions as "Should she have asked him in?" and "Does your face flame with shame when you can't figure out which fork to use on the salad?" Honestly, I even read history and similar dizzy fiction till I got all cultured up—and all fed up, too!
I get no more thrill anymore out of an evening with the classics than Noah would get out of an April shower. I think they're all blah, no fooling! You can figure me a total loss if you like, but I know plenty of people who don't say "ain't" or raucously gargle their consomme and yet suspect that Mr. Woolworth wrote "Nicholas Nickleby" and that Boccaccio is an Eyetalian pastry.
Then again, gentle customers, why should I fritter away my sparse spare moments trying to get synthetic experience and a second-hand kick out of antique books? From my perch on the hotel switchboard I
