As we came to know the world better, we learnt the fallacy of these
ideas. But then it was too late, for the mischief had been done.

When one of us had written anything, he would read it to the other, and
when he had finished he would say, "Now, tell me what you think of
it--frankly and as a friend."

Those were his words. But his thoughts, though he may not have known
them, were:--

"Tell me it is clever and good, my friend, even if you do not think so.
The world is very cruel to those that have not yet conquered it, and,
though we keep a careless face, our young hearts are scored with
wrinkles. Often we grow weary and faint-hearted. Is it not so, my
friend? No one has faith in us, and in our dark hours we doubt
ourselves. You are my comrade. You know what of myself I have put into
this thing that to others will be but an idle half-hour's reading. Tell
me it is good, my friend. Put a little heart into me, I pray you."

But the other, full of the lust of criticism, which is civilisation's
substitute for cruelty, would answer more in frankness than in
friendship. Then he who had written would flush angrily, and scornful
words would pass.

One evening, he read me a play he had written. There was much that was
good in it, but there were also faults (there are in some plays), and
these I seized upon and made merry over. I could hardly have dealt out
to the piece more unnecessary bitterness had I been a professional
critic.