world for that sort of thing!--so truly 'Christian,' pleasant and
charitable! But the consequence of all these mean and petty 'personal'
views of life is, that sound, unbiased, honest literary criticism is a
dead art. You can't get it anywhere. And yet if you could, there's
nothing that would be so helpful, or so strengthening to a man's work.
It would make him put his best foot foremost. I should like to think
that my book when it comes out, would be 'reviewed' by a man who had no
prejudices, no 'party' politics, no personal feeling for or against
me,--but who simply and solely considered it from an impartial,
thoughtful, just and generous point of view--taking it as a piece of
work done honestly and from a deep sense of conviction. Criticism from
fellows who just turn over the pages of a book to find fault casually
wherever they can--(I've seen them at it in newspaper offices!) or to
quote unfairly mere scraps of sentences without context,--or to fly off
into a whirlwind of personal and scurrilous calumnies against an author
whom they don't know, and perhaps never will know,--that sort of thing
is quite useless to me. It neither encourages nor angers me. It is a
mere flabby exhibition of incompetency--much as if a jelly-fish should
try to fight a sea-gull! Now you,--if you criticise me,--your criticism
will be valuable, because it will be quite honest--there will be no
'personal' feeling in it----"

She raised her eyes to his and smiled.

"No?"

Something warm and radiant in her glance flashed into his soul and
thrilled it strangely. Vaguely startled by an impression which he did
not try to analyse, he went on hastily--"No--because you see you are
neither my friend nor my enemy, are you?"

She was quite silent.

"I mean,"--he continued, blundering along somewhat lamely,--"You don't
hate me very much, and you don't like me very much. I'm just an ordinary
man to you. Therefore you're bound to be perfectly impartial, because
what I do is a matter of 'personal' indifference to you. That's why your
criticism will be so helpful and valuable."

She bent her head closely over the lace she was mending for a minute or
two, as though she were making a very intricate knot. Then she looked up
again.

"Well, if you wish it, I'll tell you just what I think," she said,
quietly--"But you mustn't call it criticism. I'm not clever enough to
judge a book. I only know what pleases _me_,--and what pleases me may
not please the w