I met George at a literrary convention a good many years ago, and was struck by the peculiar look of innocence and candor upon his round middle-aged face. He was the kind of person, I decided at once, to whom you would give your wallet to hold while you went swimming.

He recognized me from my photographs on the back of my books and greeted me gladly, telling me how much he liked my stories and novels which, of course, gave me a good opinion of his intelligence and taste.

We shook hands cordially and he said, "My name is George Bitternut."

"Bitternut," I repeated, in order to fix it in my mind. "An unusual name."

"Danish," he said, "and very aristocratic. I am descended from Cnut, better known as Canute, a Danish king who conquered England in the early eleventh century. An ancestor of mine was his son, born on the wrong side of the blanket, of course."

"Of course," I muttered, though I didn't see why that was something that should be taken for granted.

"He was named Cnut for his father," George went on,"and when he was presented to the king, the royal Dane said, 'By my halidom, is this my heir?'"

"'Not quite,' siad the courtier who was dandling little Cnut, 'for he is illegitimate, the mother being the launderwoman whom you-'

"'Ah,' said the king, 'That's better.' And Bettercnut he was known from that moment on. Just that single name. I have inherited that name in the direct male line except that the vicissitudes of time have changed the name to Bitternut." And his blue eyes looked at me with a kind of hypnotic ingenuousness that forbade doubt.

I said, "Would you join me for lunch?" sweeping my hand in the direction of the ornate restaurant that was clearly intended only for the fat-walleted.

George said,"Don't you think that that bistro is a bit garish and that the lunch counter on the other side might-"

"As my guest," I added.

And George pursed his lips and said,"Now that I look at the bistro in a better light, I see that it has a rather homelike atmosphere. Yes, it will do."

Over the main course, George said,"My ancestor Bettercnut had a son, whom he named Sweyn. A good Dnish name."

"Yes, I know," I said,"King Cnut's father's name was Sweyn Forkbeard.In modern times, the name is usually spelled Sven."

George frowned slightly sand said,"There is no need, old man, to parade your knowledge of these things. I accept the fact that you have the rudiments of an education."

I felt abashed."Sorry."

He waved his hand in grand forgiveness, ordered another glass of wine and said,"Sweyn Bettercnut was fascinated by the young women, a characteristic all the Bitternuts have inherited, and he was very successful with them, I might add-as we have all been. There is a well-attested tale that many a woman after leaving him would shake her head admiringly and say, 'Oh, what a Sweyn that is.' He was an archimage, too." He paused, and said abruptly,"Do you know wht an archimage is?"

"No," I lied, not wishing to parade my knowledge offensively yet again."Tell me."

"An archimage is a master magician," said George, with what certainly sounded like a sigh of relief."Sweyn studied the arcane and hidden arts. It was possible to do it then, for all that nasty modern skepticism had not yet arisen. He was intent on finding ways of persuading the young ladies to behave with that kind of gentle and compliant behavior that is the crown of womanhood and to eschew all that was froward and shrewish."

"Ah," I said, sympathetically.

"For this he needed demons, and he perfected means for calling them up by burning certain sweet shrubs and calling on certain half-forgotten names of power."

"And did it work, Mr. Bitternut?"

"Please call me George. Of course it worked. He had demons in teams and shoals working for him for, as he often complained, the women of the time were mule-headed and obstinate who countered his claim to be the grandson of a king, with unkind remarks about the nature of the descent. Once a demon did his thing, however, they could see that a natural son was only natural."

I said,"Are you sure this is so, George?"

"Certainly, for last summer I found his book of recipes for calling up demons. I found it in an old English castle that is in ruins now but that once belonged to my family. The exact shrubs were listed, the manner of burning, the pacing, the names of power, the intonations. Everything. It was written in Old English-Anglo-Saxon, you know-but I am by way of being a linguist and --"

A certain mild skepticism made itself felt."You're joking," I said.

His glance was haughty. "Why do you think so? Am I tittering? It was an authentic book. I tested the recipes myself."

"And got a demon."

"Yes, indeed," he said, pointing significantly to the breast pocket of his suit coat.

"In there?"

George touched the pocket and seemed on the point of nodding, when his fingers seemed to feel something significant, or perhaps failed to feel something. He peered inside.

"He's gone," he said with dissatisfaction. "Dematerialized. -But you can't blame him, perhaps. He was with me last night because he was curious about this convention, you know. I gave him some whiskey out of an eyedropper and he liked it. Perhaps he liked it a little too much, for he wanted to fight the caged cockatoo in the bar and began squeaking opprobrious names at it. Fortunately he fell asleep before the offended bird could retaliate. This morning he did not seem at his best and I suppose he has gone home, wherever that might be, to recover."

I felt a touch rebellious. Did he expect me to believe all this? "Are you telling me you had a demon in your breast pocket?"

"Your quick grasp of the situation," said George,"is gratifying."

"How big was he?"

"Two centimeters."

"But that's less than an inch."

"Perfectly correct. An inch is 2.54 centimeters."

"I mean, what kind of a demon is two centimeters tall?"

"A small one," said George, "but as the old saying goes, a small demon is better than no demon."

"It depends on his mood."

"Oh, Azazel-that's his name-is a friendly demon. I suspect he is looked down upon his native haunts, for he is extraordinarily anxious to impress me with his powers, except that he won't use them to make me rich, as he should out of decent friendship. He says his powers must be used only to do good to others."

"Come, come, George. Surely that's not the philosophy of hell."

George put a finger to his lips. "Don't say things like that, old man. Azazel would be enormously offended. He says that his country is kindly, decent, and highly civilized, and he speaks with enormous respect of his ruler whom he won't name but whom he calls merely the All-in-All."

"And does he indeed do kindnesses?"

"Whenever he can. Take the case of my goddaughter, Juniper Pen-"

"Juniper Pen?"

"Yes. I can see by the look of intense curiosity in your eye that you wish to know the story and I will gladly tell it to you."

Juniper Pen [said George] was a wide-eyed sophomore at college when the tale I tell you opened-an innocent, sweet girl fascinated by the basketball team, one and all of whom were tall, handsome young men.

The one of the team upon whom her girlish fancies seemed most fixed was Leander Thomson, tall, rangy, with large hands that wrapped themselves about a basketball, or anything else that was the size and shape of a basketball, which somehow brings Juniper in mind. He was the undoubted focus of her screaming when she sat in the audience at one of the games.

She would speak to me of her sweet little dreams, for like all young women, even those who were not my goddaughters, she had the impulse to confide in me. My warm but dignified demeanor invited confidence.