"What is truth?" I asked wearily. "We all thought we knew the truth about gravitation. Then Einstein came along with his relativity theory, and told us we were wrong."
"Did he?" inquired Macdonald, with a faint smile.
"I am quoting from the newspapers," I added hastily. "I haven't the remotest idea what relativity means. Perhaps it's Epstein I mean—no, he's a sculptor."
"You're hedging!" said Macdonald.
"Can you blame me?" I asked. "You're trying to get me to say what truth is. I am not a professor of philosophy, I'm a dominie. All I can say is that the Log was the truth . . . for me . . . five years ago; but it isn't the truth for me now."
"Then, what exactly is your honest opinion of the Log as a work on education?"
"As a work on education," I said deliberately, "the Log isn't worth a damn."
"Not a bad criticism, either," said Macdonald dryly.
"I say that," I continued, "because when I wrote it I knew nothing about the most important factor in education—the psychology of children."
"But," said Mrs. Macdonald in surprise—hitherto she had been an interested listener—"I thought that the bits about the bairns were the best part of the book."