"Not yet," answered he, "you know you told me not to be in a hurry, and I've taken your advice. I feel I am decidedly mellower than I was, but I'm not yet ripe."
"Shall you write under your own name?"
"No. If you write under your own name you cannot help being handicapped, to some extent, by your circumstances and surroundings. You know what your friends will expect of you, and you feel bound in some measure to fulfil their expectations. But if you write under a nom de plume you are quite free."
"I see what you mean, and I think I agree with you," said Isabel.
"For instance, I should say lots of things that my father would not agree with, my opinions on most matters being different from his, though my admiration and respect for his character are greater than they ever were. He has found truth and righteousness, and I hope to find them some day; but I shall travel by different roads and use different methods from those by which he has been led. Mind you, I do not say, or even think, that mine are better than his, but they are different, owing to the difference in our characters and our generations."
"I perfectly understand," said Isabel sympathetically.
"Then, do you see? if I wrote as his son, he would have to bear in a measure the onus of my work, and that would not be fair to him."
"You are quite right. But do not wait too long before you begin your book; do not wait till you are blasé and cynical and have lost all your illusions."
"Do you like people to keep their illusions?" Paul asked.
"Yes, oh! yes. I always pray that I may never outlive my illusions or my front teeth, though all else may fail me."