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She had telephoned him that it was splendid. I went to sell it to him. I remember, as everybody else does who ever went to see Mr. Dreiser, that he sat there behind his desk. He was the homeliest man you ever looked at. He was a queer. We didn't know the word neurotic in those days, but he was so queer. He held in his hand all the time a handkerchief. He didn't look at you at all. He just sat there and looked at this handkerchief which he folded into small folds. He'd take it apart and then fold it in pleats again. He never looked at you, but just looked at his handkerchief. Then he'd turn it the other way and make some pleats on the other side. It was disconcerting to a person trying to ingratiate themselves with him.

Then after pleating the handkerchief a while he would give you some good advice about what constituted a good article for a woman's magazine. It was quite cynical advice. He said, “Yes, I read this article, or some of it. The writing's very good, but the people who read my magazine don't care anything about the writing. They want little, kind of newsy articles about what's going on in the great world.” It was the first time I'd ever heard anybody say this, but he said, “This little magazine is read by a little woman in a farm house out beyond the Mississippi River. You must have her in mind when you write. Your article is too sophisticated.