I have hated that picture since the day it first appeared in in my study. I only agreed to letting it in because I knew the alternative was Titherington’s hospital nurse. The Dutch bureau, if it is Dutch, is most uncomfortable to write at. There was no use, however, wrangling about details. I brought forward the one strong objection to the plan which occurred to me at the moment.
“Has my uncle been consulted?” I asked. “From what I know of Thormanby I should say he’s not at all likely to agree to my spending my life in writing poetry.”
“His idea,” said my mother, “is that you should bring out a comprehensive work on the economic condition of Ireland in the twentieth century.”
“He thinks,” Lalage added, “that when you do go into Parliament it will be a great advantage to you to be a recognized authority on something, even if it’s only Irish economics.”
I knew, of course, that I should have to give in to a certain extent in the end; but I was not prepared to fall in with Thormanby’s absurd suggestion.
“Very well,” I said, “I shall write a book. I shall write my reminiscences.”
“Reminiscences,” said Lalage, “are rather rot as a rule.”
“The bent of my genius,” I said, “is entirely reminiscent.”
Rather to my surprise Lalage accepted the reminiscences as a tolerable substitute for the economic treatise. I suppose she did not really care what I wrote so long as I wrote something.
“Very well,” she said. “We’ll give you six months.”