“Yes, 'The Confessions of a Young Man' was much liked here and in France. Will you let me give it to you?” We stopped at a book shop. “It will please you and help you to forget 'Spring Days.'” He smiled. “Never mention that book again,” I added. “I wonder how I could have written it.” We were in a hansom; he turned his head and looked at me without attempting to answer my question; and from that day till six months ago my impulse was to destroy every copy that came my way. A copy of “Spring Days” excited in me an uncontrollable desire of theft, and whenever I caught sight of one in a friend's house I put it in my pocket without giving a thought to the inconvenience that the larceny might cause; the Thames received it, and I returned home congratulating myself that there was one copy less in the world of “Spring Days.” When the Boer War drove me out of London I said: “Dublin doesn't contain a copy of that book;” and for nearly eight years I was left in peace, only Edward Martyn teasing me, saying that one of these days he must read the book. “R---- always says, 'I like “Spring Days”.'” “Insolent little ass,” I answered, “I'll cut him dead when we meet again.” But Edward was not joking as I thought he was, and some time afterwards he told me that after a good deal of advertising he had succeeded in obtaining a copy of “Spring Days.” The moment he left the room I searched the table and bookcase for it, but he kept it at Tillyra, else it would have gone into the Liffey, which receives all things. “My dear George, I like the book better than any of your novels,” he said one day on his return from Galway. “It is the most original, it is like no other novel, and that is why people didn't understand it.” Of course it was impossible to quarrel with dear Edward, but I wondered if I ever should find pleasure in speaking to him again; and when A. E. told me a few weeks later that he had come upon a novel of mine which he had never read before--“Spring Days,” I said. “Edward gave it to you?” “No,” he answered, “I haven't seen him for many months.” “The worst book I ever wrote.” A. E. did not answer. “What do you think of it?” To my surprise I found him of the same opinion as Edward. “My dear A. E., you know how I rely on your judgment. For twenty-five years I have refused to allow this book to be reprinted. Shall I relent?” A. E. did not seem to think the book unworthy of me, and pressed me to read it. “I'll lend you my copy.” I received it next day, but returned it to him unread, my courage having failed me at the last moment. A few months later I met Richard Best, one of the librarians at the National Library. He had just returned from his holidays; he had been spending them in Wales for the sake of the language. “By the way,” he said, “I came across an old novel of yours--'Spring Days.'” “You didn't like it?”