"
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.
As soon as I paused from my sport he rose, and, taking his manuscript
from the table, tore it in two, and flung it in the fire--he was but a
very young man, you must remember--and then, standing before me with a
white face, told me, unsolicited, his opinion of me and of my art. After
which double event, it is perhaps needless to say that we parted in hot
anger.
I did not see him again for years. The streets of life are very crowded,
and if we loose each other's hands we are soon hustled far apart. When I
did next meet him it was by accident.
I had left the Whitehall Rooms after a public dinner, and, glad of the
cool night air, was strolling home by the Embankment. A man, slouching
along under the trees, paused as I overtook him.
"You couldn't oblige me with a light, could you, guv'nor?" he said.
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