to about a dozen friends at the rooms of one who was always most generously helpful to writers not yet sure of their road. A lady read the plays very beautifully. Afterwards we all applauded. Synge learned his métier that night. Until then, all his work had been tentative and in the air. After that, he went forward, knowing what he could do.
For two or three months I met Synge almost daily. Presently he went back to Ireland (I believe to Aran) and I to “loathed Devonshire.” I met him again, later in the year. During the next few years, though he was not often in town, I met him fairly often whenever the Irish players came to London. Once I met him for a few days together in Dublin. He was to have stayed with me both in London and in Ireland; but on both occasions his health gave way, and the visit was never paid. I remember sitting up talking with him through the whole of one winter night (in 1904.) Later, when the Rokeby Velasquez was being talked of, I went with him to see the picture. We agreed that it was the kind of picture people paint when mind is