"He mustn't wait," she said. "It's all right. Grevill knows. We told him he was to do Lankester first." I groaned. "It doesn't matter," I said, "which he does first." "You mean he'll be driven anyway?" It was so far from what I meant that I could only stare at her and at her frightful failure to perceive. I went at it again, as I thought, with a directness that left nothing to her intelligence. I told her what I meant was that he couldn't do them both. But she didn't see it. She just looked at me with her terrible innocence. "You mean it's too much for him?" And I tried to begin again with no, it wasn't exactly that--but she went on over me. It wouldn't be too much for him if he didn't go at it so hard. He was giving himself more to do than was necessary. He'd marked so many things for omission; and, of course, the more he left out of "Papa," the more he had to put in of his own. "And he needn't," she said. "There's such a lot of Papa." I knew. I scowled miserably at that. How was I going to tell her it was the whole trouble, that there was "such a lot of Papa"? I said there was; but, on the other hand, he needed such a lot of editing. She said that was just what they had to think about. _Did_ he? I remembered Burton's theory, and I put it to her point-blank. Had she read all of him? She flushed slightly. No, she said, not all. But Mamma had. "Then" (I skirmished), "you don't really know?" She parried it with "Mamma knows." And I thrust. "But," I said, "does your mother really understand?" I saw her wince. "Do you mean," she said, "there are things--things in it that had better be kept out?" "No," I said, "there weren't any 'things' in it----" "There couldn't be," she said superbly. "Not things we'd want to hide." I said there weren't. It wasn't "things" at all. I shut my eyes and went at it head downward. It was, somehow, the whole thing. "The whole thing?" she said, and I saw that I had hit her hard. "The whole thing," I said. She looked scared for a moment. Then she rallied. "But it's the whole thing we want. He wanted it. I know he did. He wanted to be represented completely or not at all. As he stood. As he stood," she reiterated. She had given me the word I wanted. I could do it gently now. "That's it," I said. "These 'Memoirs' won't represent him." Subtlety, diabolic or divine, was given me. I went at it like a man inspired. "They won't do him justice. They'll do him harm." "Harm?" She breathed it with an audible fright. "Very great harm. They give a wrong impression, an impression of--of----" I left it to her. It sank in. She pondered it. "You mean," she said at last, "the things he says about himself?" "Precisely. The things he says about himself. I doubt if he really intended them all for publication." "It's not the things he says about himself so much," she said. "We could leave some of them out. It's what Grevill might have said about him."