events of the day and hour."

"Which are never in themselves worth putting down," I said. "All that is
worth remembering will find for itself some convenient cranny to go to
sleep in till it is wanted, without being made a poor mummy of in a diary."

"If you have such a memory, I grant that is better, even for my purpose,
much better," said Mr. S.

"For your purpose!" I repeated, in surprise. "I beg your pardon; but what
designs can you have upon my memory?"

"Well, I suppose I had better be as straightforward as I know you would
like me to be, Mrs. Percivale. I want you to make up the sum your father
owes me. He owed me three books; he has paid me two. I want the third from
you."

I laughed; for the very notion of writing a book seemed preposterous.

"I want you, under feigned names of course," he went on, "as are all the
names in your father's two books, to give me the further history of the
family, and in particular your own experiences in London. I am confident
the history of your married life must contain a number of incidents which,
without the least danger of indiscretion, might be communicated to the
public to the great advantage of all who read them."

"You forget," I said, hardly believing him to be in earnest, "that I should
be exposing my story to you and Mr. Blackstone at least. If I were to make
the absurd attempt,--I mean absurd as regards my ability,--I should be
always thinking of you two as my public, and whether it would be right for