rkling of her small
protruded shoes. In a word, she quite looked the part, and, perceiving
the impression she had made, was willing to be gracious to everybody. As
we were going upstairs to the luncheon room, this effect was completed.
Lady Jersey laid a caressing hand on her shoulder and said: "You must go
first. The entertainment is in honor of you." Ouida was here at her
best. No one could have been more agreeable and less affected than she.

[Illustration: Ouida]

Her latter years were overclouded by poverty. This was due to her almost
mad extravagance--to her constant attempts, in short, to live up to the
standards of her own heroines. Had she acted like a sensible woman, she
might have realized a very fair fortune. She had many appreciative
friends, who gave her considerable sums to relieve her at various times
from the pressure of financial difficulties; but they realized in the
end that to do this was like pouring water into a sieve. Somebody gave
her L250 in London to enable her to pay her hotel bill; but before a
week was over she had lavished more than a hundred in turning her
sitting room at the Langham Hotel into a glade of the most expensive
flowers. She died, in what was little better than a peasant's cottage,
at Lucca. Among the ladies to whom she had been introduced in London
was Winifred, Lady Howard of Glossop. A year or so later Ouida wrote me
a letter from Florence, saying, "Your name has been just recalled to me
by seeing in the _Morning Post_ that you were dining the other night
with Lady Howard of Glossop, one of my oldest friends." This is an
example of the way in which her imagination enabled her to live in a
fabric of misplaced facts, for the person through whom she became
acquainted with Lady Howard was none other than myself. The next letter
I had from her was to say that she was dedicating one of her later
books--a volume of essays--to me. The letter did not reach me till after
many delays, and I often regret the fact that before I was able, or
remembered, to answer it she was dead.

Another authoress well known to me, of whom I have made mention already,
was the beautiful "Violet Fane," who, under that pseudonym, published
many volumes of poetry. Her actual name was Mrs. Singleton. She
afterward became Lady Currie. I first knew her before my London days
began, and I dedicated _The New Republic_ to her. She was the center of
a group of intimates, of whom those who survive must connect her