ons amount only to about 40
pages. The Editor goes on: "These few omissions are rendered necessary
by the pledge which Sir Richard gave to his subscribers that no cheaper
edition of the entire work should be issued; but in all other respects
the original text has been reproduced with scrupulous fidelity."

By this time Lady Burton had lost two of her Trieste friends, namely
Lisa, the baroness-maid who died in 1891, and Mrs. Victoria Maylor,
Burton's amanuensis, who died in 1894.

Chapter XLI. Death of Lady Burton

Bibliography:

87. The Jew, the Gypsy, and El Islam. 1898. 88. Wanderings in Three
Continents. 1901.

183. Lady Burton at Eastbourne.

Lady Burton spent the year 1894 and part of 1895 at Baker Street and
Mortlake, making occasional visits to friends. As at Trieste, she
surrounded herself with a crowd of servants and other idle people whom,
in her good nature, she systematically pampered, and who in their turn
did their best to make her life unendurable. She could, however, easily
afford these luxuries, for thanks to the large sums received for her
Life of Sir Richard, the Library Edition, &c., she was now in affluent
circumstances. She won to herself and certainly deserved the character
of "a dear old lady." In politics she was a "progressive Conservative,"
though what that meant neither she nor those about her had any clear
notion. She dearly loved children--at a safe distance--and gave treats,
by proxy, to all the Catholic schools in the neighbourhood. She took an
active interest in various charities, became an anti-vivisectionist, and
used very humanely to beat people about the head with her umbrella, if
she caught them ill-treating animals. If they remonstrated, she used to
retort, "Yes, and how do you like It?" "When she wanted a cab," says Mr.
W. H. Wilkins, "she invariably inspected the horse carefully first, to
see if it looked well fed and cared for; if not, she discharged the cab
and got another; and she would always impress upon the driver that he
must not beat his horse under any consideration." On one occasion she
sadly forgot herself. She and her sister, Mrs. FitzGerald, had hired a
cab at Charing Cross Station and were in a great hurry to get home. Of
course, as usual, she impressed upon the cabman that he was not to
beat his horse. "The horse, which was a wretched old screw, refused, in
consequence, to go at more than a walking pace," and Lady Burton, who
was fuming w