I’ve been accused by many people of entering their rooms uninvited, but I’m totally unaware of it. In New York City, many years ago, my friend, Alice Bentley—she’s now gone from this world—she was a darling soul. Ouspensky and Gurdjieff all used her studio at Carnegie Hall. And Ali was just one wonderful person. Her name was Alice Bentley; we called her Ali-Ben. Ali used to walk the streets of New York without shoes with this lovely shock of white hair, long flowing Indian robes, and she was quite the character. But, people like Ouspensky and Gurdjieff and all of them arrived, when they came here, it was Ali’s studio that they all used. And so one day, so this lady told me—she ran all the restaurants in the Wellington Hotel—and Ali told me the next day, after the event, she said, “Know what happened to me last night, Neville?” I hadn’t the slightest idea. Well, she said, “You appeared bodily in the room and called this lady’s name”—who was the manager of all the restaurants, and she lived at the hotel. I appeared in her room, so she said, and I said to her, “Ali needs money, and she must have it right away. I want you to go downstairs right now and take all the money you have in your purse and empty it right into Ali’s lap.” Well, she said, I spoke so convincingly that when I disappeared she thought this was some divine message; she went right downstairs to Ali, took all the money in her purse, and emptied it in Ali’s lap. Ali thanked her profusely for the most generous gift. Ali did need the money…she owed rent.730 ¶15