"Precisely," I said. "Men have written fiction so vividly that people have believed it truth. I am going to write truth in such a manner that people will take it for excellent fiction. Yes, I shall follow Othello's advice, 'nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice.' It is a camera you are operating, my dear, not a typewriting machine." That afternoon we took a long drive, to Farley Hill, which point is said to be nine hundred feet above the sea. I was tranquil enough now. We were alone except for the driver, whose back was toward us. The long stretches of sugar cane made a pleasing prospect. Every individual we met, mostly people of various degrees of negro lineage, addressed us pleasantly. The trade-winds from the east, that blow over Barbados six months in the year, brought ozone to our lungs and coolness to our faces. The road for the entire distance was smooth and hard. It was one of the most delightful drives I had ever taken and there was nothing to mar the occasion. We passed the evening after dinner in our joint sitting room, with the windows wide open and retired early. "You are the most honest man I ever met," said Miss May, the next morning, when she was in the midst of her work. She had just written this paragraph: I have led a life as regards women that I now think worse than idiotic. I have followed one after another of them, from pillar to post, falling madly in love, getting the blues, losing heart, all that sort of thing. I have never been intimately acquainted with a pure, honest girl of the better classes, except one. "Was there ever another man who would put such things about himself in cold type?" "But, listen," I said, defensively. "See what follows: I need sadly to be educated by a woman who will not hold out temptation. I have an idea that a few months passed abroad, in the society of such a woman, will make another man of me. "Marjorie, my life, I was right. It has made another man of me. I shall never be what I was before--never as long as I breathe." She shook her head, half doubtfully, but declined to discuss the subject further. When she came to Hume's question, "What is to keep you from falling in love with your secretary?" she seemed troubled until she had received the answer I gave him, declaring that my "secretary" would be sent home with a month's advance wages if she allowed me to forget that I was merely her employer. Then she broke the rule we had adopted, and I could not blame her. "You are evidently of a forgetful nature," she said. "The promise you made your friend does not agree with some of the foolish things you have tried to say to me."