My mother backed her up of course.
“It is,” I said, “and always was. It’s a great pity that it wasn’t found out sooner. Think of the time I wasted in Portugal and of that wretched episode in East Connor. However, there’s no use going back on past mistakes.”
“They weren’t altogether mistakes,” said Lalage. “We couldn’t have known that you were literary until we found out that you weren’t any good at anything else.”
“That view of literature,” I said, “as the last refuge of the incompetent, is quite unworthy of you, Lalage. Recollect that you once edited a magazine yourself. You should have more respect for the profession of letters.”
“Don’t argue,” said Lalage. “All we say is that if you can’t do anything else you must be able to write.”
Then the truth began to become clear to me. My dream of a life of cultured ease, spent, with intervals for recreation, in the society of gentle poets, faded.
“Do you mean,” I said, “that I’m to——?”
“Certainly,” said Lalage.
“To write a book?” I said desperately.
“That’s the reason,” said Lalage, “why I refurnished your study and bought that perfectly sweet Dutch marquetry bureau and hung up the picture of Milton dictating ‘Paradise Lost’ to his two daughters.”