To offer a volume of short stories to the countrymen of Edgar Allan Poe and O. Henry is an operation which requires nerve. According to my publisher it also requires "a foreword" which I find, after consultation with the dictionary, is the same thing as a preface. Now to write a preface to one's own book seems to me about as embarrassing a task as any author can be asked to undertake.

It is like standing outside the front door calling the attention of indifferent ers-by to the more attractive features of one's own house. They managed things better in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when for a comparative trifle some great artist like John Dryden was cheerfully prepared to furnish a flattering introduction to the work of any author on the simple understanding that he was not expected to read the volume in question.

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