ht for
Rossetti, who was staying with them, "let us have quarts of hot coffee,
pyramids of toast, and multitudinous quantities of milk"; which to her
meant all he intended. "Dear Mary," wrote Rossetti, "please go and smash
a brute in Red Lion passage to-morrow. He had to send a big book, a
scrapbook, to Master Crabb, 34, Westbourne Place, Eaton Square, and he
hasn't done it. I don't know his name, but his shop is dirty and full of
account books. This book was ordered ten days ago, and was to have been
sent home the next day _and was paid for_--so sit on him hard to-morrow
and dig a fork into his eye, as I can't come that way to murder him
myself." From these hints she knew exactly what to say.

Her memory was excellent and sense of humour keen, so that some of the
commissions on which she was sent gave her great enjoyment--as one day
when Edward told her to take a cab and go to Mr. Watts at Little Holland
House, and ask him for the loan of "whatever draperies and any other old
things he could spare," and Mr. Watts, amused at the form of the
request, sent her back with a parcel of draperies and an old pair of
brown trousers, bidding her tell Mr. Jones those were the only "old
things" he could spare. This delighted Edward, and he detained Mary
while he took down his "Vasari" and read to her of the old Italian
painter who had his breeches made of leather because they wore out so
quickly; and then he professed to be grateful for Mr. Watts' gift, and
said he would have the brown trousers made to fit him.

Mary wrote a good hand and spelled well, and would sit down and write
with gravity such a note as the following, dictated to her by Edward.
"Mr. Bogie Jones' compts. to Mr. Price and begs to inform him he expects
to be down for Commemoration and that he hopes to meet him, clean, well
shaved, and with a contrite heart." Morris' quick temper annoyed her,
but she once prettily said, "Though he was so short-tempered, I seemed
so necessary to him at all times, and felt myself his man Friday."

ELEPHANT
[Sidenote: _Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones_]

My reading aloud to him began soon after our marriage, with Plutarch's
"Lives"--an old folio edition. Holland's translation of Pliny's "Natural
History" was also a treasure for the purpose, and the "Arabian Nights"
were ever fresh. The description of "Mrs. Gamp's apartment in Kingsgate
Street, High Holborn," was read over and over again until I, but not he,
was wearied for a tim