"I mean, papa," I answered, "that it would be a more profitable employment to keep the one than the other." "I suppose you think," said Mr. Blackstone, "that the lady who keeps a diary is in the same danger as the old woman who prided herself in keeping a strict account of her personal expenses. And it always was correct; for when she could not get it to balance at the end of the week, she brought it right by putting down the deficit as _charity_." "That's just what I mean," I said. "But," resumed Mr. S., "I did not mean a diary of your feelings, but of the events of the day and hour." "Which are never in themselves worth putting down," I said. "All that is worth remembering will find for itself some convenient cranny to go to sleep in till it is wanted, without being made a poor mummy of in a diary." "If you have such a memory, I grant that is better, even for my purpose, much better," said Mr. S. "For your purpose!" I repeated, in surprise. "I beg your pardon; but what designs can you have upon my memory?" "Well, I suppose I had better be as straightforward as I know you would like me to be, Mrs. Percivale. I want you to make up the sum your father owes me. He owed me three books; he has paid me two. I want the third from you." I laughed; for the very notion of writing a book seemed preposterous. "I want you, under feigned names of course," he went on, "as are all the names in your father's two books, to give me the further history of the family, and in particular your own experiences in London. I am confident the history of your married life must contain a number of incidents which, without the least danger of indiscretion, might be communicated to the public to the great advantage of all who read them." "You forget," I said, hardly believing him to be in earnest, "that I should be exposing my story to you and Mr. Blackstone at least. If I were to make the absurd attempt,--I mean absurd as regards my ability,--I should be always thinking of you two as my public, and whether it would be right for me to say this and say that; which you may see at once would render it impossible for me to write at all." "I think I can suggest a way out of that difficulty, Wynnie," said my father. "You must write freely, all you feel inclined to write, and then let your husband see it. You may be content to let all pass that he passes." "You don't say you really mean it, papa! The thing is perfectly impossible. I never wrote a book in my life, and"-- "No more did I, my dear, before I began my first." "But you grew up to it by degrees, papa!" "I have no doubt that will make it the easier for you, when you try. I am so far, at least, a Darwinian as to believe that."