I was somebody, too.

Fox treated me with a kind of deference--as if I were a great unknown.

His "you literary men" was pleasing.

It was the homage that the pretender pays to the legitimate prince; the recognition due to the real thing from the machine-made imitation; the homage of the builder to the architect.
"Ah, yes," it seemed to say, "we jobbing men run up our rows and rows of houses; build whole towns and fill the papers for years.

But when we want something special--something monumental--we have to come to you." Fox came in again.
"Very sorry, my dear fellow, find I can't possibly get a moment for a chat with you.