I have set down nothing except the truth and this ought to please Lalage; but I am not at all sure that it will. I have noticed that of late she has shown signs of disliking any mention of the _Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette_ or the campaign of the Association for the Suppression of Public Lying in East Connor. She pulled me up very abruptly yesterday when I asked her what Hilda’s surname really is. I wanted it in order to make my book as complete as possible. Lalage seemed to think that I intended to annoy her by talking over past events. “I wish,” she said, “that you wouldn’t always try to make yourself out a fool. You’ve known Hilda intimately since she was quite a girl.” That, of course, was my difficulty all along. I have known Hilda too intimately. If our friendship had been more formal or had begun more formally, I should, at first at all events, have called her “Miss” something instead of simply “Hilda.” Then I should not be in my present awkward position. I am also doubtful about Thormanby’s reception of the book. He ought to be pleased, for he appears in my pages as a bluff, straightforward nobleman, devoted to the public good and full of sound common-sense though slightly choleric. This is exactly what he is; but I have noticed that people are not always pleased with faithful portraits of themselves. The case of the Archdeacon, now bishop, is more serious. He has not yet married Miss Battersby, although Lalage has done her best to throw them together and the advantages of the match become every day more obvious. It is just possible that the publication of my reminiscences may create an awkwardness--a constraint of manner on the part of the bishop, a modest shrinking in Miss Battersby, which will tend to put off the final settlement of the affair. I ventured to hint to Lalage that it might be well to bring the business to a head, if possible, before my book is published. Lalage expressed considerable surprise. “What on earth has your book got to do with their marriage?” she said. I saw no good in anticipating what is likely to be an evil day by offering a premature explanation. “Nothing,” I said, “nothing at all.” “Then why do you want to have them married before the book comes out?” “I don’t,” I said. “I merely want them to be engaged. My idea is to give them the book as a wedding present, nicely bound in calf of course.” “Poor Pussy,” said Lalage; “I intend to give her something better than that.” Lalage has not read my book. It was a bargain from the very first that neither she nor my mother should ask to see the manuscript. She cannot know, therefore, whether it will be better or worse than the silver teapot which I expect she has in mind for Miss Battersby’s wedding present.