not feel a sense of wrong, or to express a wish
to meet you, or to trust you any longer as I have hitherto trusted you,
I must decline saying anything of the kind, because it would not be
true.

Of course I know that there cannot be omelettes without breaking eggs;
and I suppose that there cannot be what are called psychological
novels, without violating confidences. But you cannot be surprised,
when you encourage an old friend to trust you and confide in you, and
then draw an ugly caricature of him in a book, if he thinks the worse
of you in consequence. I hear that the book is a great success; you
must be content with the fact that the yolks are as golden as they are.
Please do not write to me again on the subject. I will try to forget
it, and if I succeed, I will let you know.

Yours ----

That is the kind of letter that poisons life for a while. While I am
aware that I meant no treachery, I am none the less aware that I have
contrived to be a traitor. Of course one vows one will never write
another line; but I do not suppose I shall keep the vow. I reply
shortly, eating all the dirt I can collect; and I shall try to forget
it too; though it is a shabby end of an old friendship.

Then I turn to the reviews. I find them gracious, respectful,
laudatory. They are to be taken cum grano, of course. When an
enthusiastic reviewer says that I have passed at one stride into the
very first class of contemporary writers, I do not feel particularly
elated, though I am undeniably pleased. I find my conception, my
structure, my style, my descriptions, my character-drawing, liberally
and generously praised. There is no doubt that the book has been really
successful beyond my wildest hopes. If I were in any doubt, the crop of
letters from editors and publishers asking me for articles and books of
every kind, and offering me incredible terms, would convince me.

Now what do I honestly feel about all this? I will try for my own
benefit to say. Of course I am very much pleased, but the odd thing is
that I am not more pleased. I can say quite unaffectedly that it does
not turn my head in the least. I reflect that if this had happened when
I began to write, I should have been beside myself with delight, full
of self-confidence, blown out with wind, like the fog in the fable.
Even now there is a deep satisfaction in having done what one has tried
to do. But instead of raking in the credit, I am more inclined to be
grateful for my