She began by saying in a casual way, one night after dinner, that she did not think I had any real taste for political life. I agreed with her heartily. Then she and my mother smiled at each other in a way which made me certain that they had some other career for me in mind. Shortly afterward they took to talking a great deal about books, especially at meal times, and several literary papers appeared regularly on my study table. I came to the conclusion that they wished me to become a patron of literature, perhaps to collect a library or to invite poets to spend their holidays with us. I was quite willing to fall in with this plan, but I determined, privately, only to become acquainted with poets of a peaceable kind who wrote pastorals or elegies and went out for long, solitary walks to commune with nature. In my eagerness to please Lalage I went so far as to write to Selby-Harrison, asking him to make out for me a list of the leading poets of the meditative and mystical schools. I also gave an order to a bookseller for all the books of original poetry published during that autumn. The number of volumes I received surprised me. I used to exhibit them with great pride to my mother and Lalage. I once offered to read out extracts from them in the evening. “The bent of your genius,” said Lalage, “is evidently literary.” My mother backed her up of course. “It is,” I said, “and always was. It’s a great pity that it wasn’t found out sooner. Think of the time I wasted in Portugal and of that wretched episode in East Connor. However, there’s no use going back on past mistakes.” “They weren’t altogether mistakes,” said Lalage. “We couldn’t have known that you were literary until we found out that you weren’t any good at anything else.” “That view of literature,” I said, “as the last refuge of the incompetent, is quite unworthy of you, Lalage. Recollect that you once edited a magazine yourself. You should have more respect for the profession of letters.” “Don’t argue,” said Lalage. “All we say is that if you can’t do anything else you must be able to write.” Then the truth began to become clear to me. My dream of a life of cultured ease, spent, with intervals for recreation, in the society of gentle poets, faded. “Do you mean,” I said, “that I’m to----?” “Certainly,” said Lalage. “To write a book?” I said desperately. “That’s the reason,” said Lalage, “why I refurnished your study and bought that perfectly sweet Dutch marquetry bureau and hung up the picture of Milton dictating ‘Paradise Lost’ to his two daughters.” I have hated that picture since the day it first appeared in in my study. I only agreed to letting it in because I knew the alternative was Titherington’s hospital nurse. The Dutch bureau, if it is Dutch, is most uncomfortable to write at. There was no use, however, wrangling about details. I brought forward the one strong objection to the plan which occurred to me at the moment.