People shake me warmly by the hand and tell me that they like my books.

It only bores me.

Not that I am superior to compliment--nobody is--but because I cannot be sure that they mean it.

They would say just the same had they never read a line I had written.

If I visit a house and find a book of mine open face downwards on the window-seat, it sends no thrill of pride through my suspicious mind.