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.

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 even