"It seems strange to me that ... I should suddenly become one of the idols of the English public merely by writing one short play. Congratulations are pouring in upon me now, but they find me only a very weak old man, barely able to stand."
The twinkling-eyed, cherubic-countenanced old Irishman who grumbled thus, last week, is George Moore, 75, litterateur, epicure, and naughty-man-of-letters. Few smart, well-read folk do not know his Confessions of a Young Man; his great trilogy Ave, Salve, Vale; and his more recent elusively rich and moving Heloise and Abelard...
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