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