But now I see that that ideal is insufficient, even shallow; a work of art must be founded on pity; a book or poem which has no pity in it, had better not be written....
"I shall be very lonely when I come out, and I can't stand loneliness and solitude; it is intolerable to me, hateful, I have had too much of it....
"You see, Frank, I am breaking with the past altogether.

I am going to write the history of it.

I am going to tell how I was tempted and fell, how I was pushed by the man I loved into that dreadful quarrel of his, driven forward to the fight with his father and then left to suffer alone....
"That is the story I am now going to tell.

That is the book[6] of pity and of love which I am writing now--a terrible book....
"I wonder would you publish it, Frank?
I should like it to appear in _The Saturday_." "I'd be delighted to publish anything of yours," I replied, "and happier still to publish something to show that you have at length chosen the better part and are beginning a new life.

I'd pay you, too, whatever the work turns out to be worth to me; in any case much more than I pay Bernard Shaw or anyone else." I said this to encourage him.
"I'm sure of that," he answered.