Not long ago the famed novelist-historian H. G. Wells picked up a fat autobiography entitled Seventy Summers, by one Poultney Bigelow, aged U. S. journalist-lecturer, son of a former U. S. Ambassador to France.
At first Mr. Wells flipped over the pages contemptuously. Then his eye kindled at the following description of himself, interlarded with an account of a tea party at Lady Russell's London flat:
"Of all that roomful Wells, perhaps, was the only one who could be picked out as a lucky stockbroker or traveling salesman. He chatted pleasantly of the fabulous amounts...
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