At the Union Station in Washington the author James Joyce, stands by a booth. He is a fairly tall and rather slender man well dressed in dark clothes. He wears glasses. My 2 companions (identities unknown) know Joyce personally, and the 3 greet each other as very good friends. I remain in the background, and hope they won't notice me, as I feel like a stranger to all of them as long as they are so evidently old chronies. However, Joyce steps forward and shakes my hand. I surmise that he is selling autographed copied of his book, and ask someone whether this surmise is a fact. I am told yes, and that the price is $3.50 for an autographed copy of a book that ordinarily sells for $2.50. I decide not to buy one.