ite possible to
take a situation as a cook, and to keep it, without knowing anything
appreciable about the work. Thousands of women have done it, and
are still doing it. I never went as personal maid--I dislike
familiarity--but with that exception I played, so to speak, every
instrument in the orchestra.

I acquired an excellent stock of testimonials, of which some were
genuine. The others were due to the kindly heart and vivid imagination
of my sister Casey, now Mrs. Morgenstein.

I rarely kept my places, and never kept my friends. The only thing I
did keep was a diary. A diary is evidence. So if you see anything
about anybody in these pages, you can believe it without hesitation.
Do, please. You see, if you hesitate, you may never believe it.

I well remember the first and only time that I met Gladstone. I was
staying with Lady Bilberry at the time at her house in Half Moon
Street. She was a woman with real charm and wit, but somewhat irritable.
Most of the people I've met were irritable or became so, and I can't
think why. I may add that I only stayed out my month as too much was
expected. Besides, I'd been told there was a boy for the rough work and
there never was.

But to return to Gladstone. I wrote down every precious word of my
conversation with him at the time, and the eager and excited reader may
now peruse it in full.

GLADSTONE: Lady Bilberry at home?

MARGE: Yes, sir.

GLADSTONE: Thanks.

MARGE: What name, please?

He gave me his name quite simply, without any attempt at rudeness or
facetiousness. I should say that this was typical of the whole character
of the man. With a beautiful and punctilious courtesy he removed his
hat--not a very good hat--on entering the house. I formed the impression
from the ease with which he did this that the practice must have been
habitual with him.

The only thing that mars this cherished memory is that it was not the
Gladstone you mean, nor any relative of his, but a gentleman of the same
name who had called to see if he could interest her ladyship in a scheme
for the recovery of some buried treasure. He did not stay long, and Lady
Bilberry said I ought to have known better.

About this time I received by post a set of verses which bear quite a
resemblance to the senile vivacity of the verses which the real
Gladstone addressed to my illustrious example of autobiographical art.
The verses I received were anonymous, and as a matter of fact