Brown and MacShaughnassy came down together on the Saturday afternoon; and, as soon as they had dried themselves, and had had some tea, we settled down to work.

Jephson had written that he would not be able to be with us until late in the evening, and Brown proposed that we should occupy ourselves until his arrival with plots.

“Let each of us,” said he, “sketch out a plot.  Afterwards we can compare them, and select the best.”

This we proceeded to do.  The plots themselves I forget, but I remember that at the subsequent judging each man selected his own, and became so indignant at the bitter criticism to which it was subjected by the other two, that he tore it up; and, for the next half-hour, we sat and smoked in silence.

When I was very young I yearned to know other people’s opinion of me and all my works; now, my chief aim is to avoid hearing it.  In those days, had any one told me there was half a line about myself in a newspaper, I should have tramped London to obtain that publication.  Now, when I see a column headed with my name, I hurriedly fold up the paper and put it away from me, subduing my natural curiosity to read it by saying to myself, “Why should you?  It will only upset you for the day.”

In my cubhood I possessed a friend.  Other friends have come into my life since—­very dear and precious friends—­but they have none of them been to me quite what this friend was.  Because he was my first friend, and we lived together in a world that was much bigger than this world—­more full of joy and of grief; and, in that world, we loved and hated deeper than we love and hate in this smaller world that I have come to dwell in since.

He also had the very young man’s craving to be criticised, and we made it our custom to oblige each other.  We did not know then that what we meant, when we asked for “criticism,” was encouragement.  We thought that we were strong—­one does at the beginning of the battle, and that we could bear to hear the truth.

Accordingly, each one pointed out to the other one his errors, and this task kept us both so busy that we had never time to say a word of praise to one another.  That we each had a high opinion of the other’s talents I am convinced, but our heads were full of silly saws.  We said to ourselves:  “There are many who will praise a man; it is only his friend who will tell him of his faults.”  Also, we said:  “No man sees his own shortcomings, but when these are pointed out to him by another he is grateful, and proceeds to mend them.”

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:—­