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?"

"On the contrary, I liked it as well, if not better, than any novel
you have written. It is so entirely original. My wife... I think you
value her opinion--"

"She liked it?"

"Come home with me, and she'll tell you how it struck her."

"I will, on one condition, that you don't mention that you spoke to me
about the book."

Best promised, and we had not been many minutes in the house before
Mrs. Best interrupted my remarks about the weather to tell me what she
thought of "Spring Days."