“Has my uncle been consulted?” I asked. “From what I know of Thormanby I should say he’s not at all likely to agree to my spending my life in writing poetry.” “His idea,” said my mother, “is that you should bring out a comprehensive work on the economic condition of Ireland in the twentieth century.” “He thinks,” Lalage added, “that when you do go into Parliament it will be a great advantage to you to be a recognized authority on something, even if it’s only Irish economics.” I knew, of course, that I should have to give in to a certain extent in the end; but I was not prepared to fall in with Thormanby’s absurd suggestion. “Very well,” I said, “I shall write a book. I shall write my reminiscences.” “Reminiscences,” said Lalage, “are rather rot as a rule.” “The bent of my genius,” I said, “is entirely reminiscent.” Rather to my surprise Lalage accepted the reminiscences as a tolerable substitute for the economic treatise. I suppose she did not really care what I wrote so long as I wrote something. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll give you six months.” I had, I am bound to say, a very pleasant and undisturbed life during the six months allowed me by Lalage. I did my writing, for the most part, in the morning, working at the Dutch marquetry bureau from ten o’clock until shortly after noon. I soon came to find a great deal of pleasure in my work. The only thing which ever put me out of temper was the picture of Milton dictating to two plump young women who had taken off their bodices in order to write with more freedom. If there are any peevish or ill-humoured passages in my book they are to be attributed entirely to the influence of that picture, chiefly to the tousled look of the younger daughter. The fact that her father was blind was no excuse for her neglecting to do her hair when she got up in the morning. I have secured, by the help of Selby-Harrison, a publisher for the book. He insists on bringing it out as a novel and refuses to allow it to be called “Memories of My Early Life,” the title I chose. “Lalage’s Lovers,” the name under which it appears in his list of forthcoming fiction, seems to me misleading. It suggests a sentimental narrative and will, I fear, give rise to some disappointment. However, I suppose that the book may sell better if we pretend that it is not true. But in Ireland, at least, this device will be vain. The things with which I deal were not done in a corner. There are many bishops who still smart from Lalage’s attack on them, and Titherington, at all events, is not likely to forget last year’s epidemic of influenza. I shall, indeed, be very glad if the publisher’s ruse succeeds and the public generally believes that I have invented the whole story. Now that the moment of publication comes near and I am engaged in adding a few final sentences to the last chapter I am beginning to feel nervous and uncomfortable. There may be a good deal of trouble and annoyance when the book comes out.