Four years ago, if I remember rightly, a friend of mine, a writer, a declared enemy of the indiscretions—of others—said to me one day when talking about my first marriage—
"Do you know, it would make excellent copy for the sort of novel which I should like to write."
Certain of my friend's applause, I decided there and then to write it myself.
"Don't be angry with me, dear old fellow, that I, as the original owner, make use of my property."
I also remember, it is twelve years ago now, a remark my future mother-in-law made to me one evening when I was watching her daughter carrying on a flirtation with a group of young men—
"Wouldn't she make a splendid heroine for a novel?"
"With what title?"
"A passionate woman!"
Happy mother, who died in the nick of time, I have carried out your suggestion. The novel has been written. I can die in peace.
MS. 1888.