A butty little man raised Oriental eyes and square hands in protest.

"You have written other books," he said, and proposed that we should
go out together and walk in the Strand.

"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."