four, the well-beloved, came for a visit; Austin Strong and his
wife ran down from London; many an afternoon was spent at Sir James
Barrie's place near Farnham. Sir James loved Mrs. Stevenson--a dear,
shy man who had so little to say to so many, so much to say to her.
Then there were the Williamsons (of _Lightning Conductor_ fame), whom
she had met in Monte Carlo; they also had a house in Surrey. And there
were Sir Arthur and Lady Pinero, who lived only a mile or two from
Fairfield. Mrs. Stevenson considered the genial, witty, gently cynical
Sir Arthur one of the most interesting men she had ever met. Lady
Pinero always called her husband "Pin," and Sir Arthur was enchanted
when, after looking at him with smiling eyes, Mrs. Stevenson one day
turned to Lady Pinero and remarked, "I've always doubted that old
saying, 'It is a sin to steal a Pin,' but now I understand it
perfectly."

Katherine de Mattos, Stevenson's cousin, also honoured Fairfield with
a visit, and Coggie Ferrier, sister of Stevenson's boyhood friend, and
the woman perhaps above all others in England whom Mrs. Stevenson
loved best, came frequently. And always there were the Favershams, who
were very dear to her heart. It was a memorable summer, full of
pleasant companionship--and rain. Towards the middle of August, on
account of the never-ceasing rain, it was finally decided to abandon
Fairfield and return to France for a long motor trip.

The first night out from Chiddingfold was spent at Tunbridge Wells,
and next day a stop was made at Rye to call on Henry James. Never did
travellers receive a more hearty or gracious welcome. It is a quaint,
lost place, Rye--one of the old Cinque Ports; to enter it one passes
under an ancient Roman arch; the nearest railroad is miles away. It is
nice to think that after giving him a cup of tea in her drawing-room
in San Francisco two years before, Mrs. Stevenson could see the house
he lived in, admire his garden, drink tea in his drawing-room, and
talk long and pleasantly with this old and valued friend she was never
to see again.

The second motor trip in France was an unqualified success. Keeping to
the west and avoiding Paris, this time their route lay through Blois,
Tours, Angouleme, Libourne, Biarritz, till, finally, several miles
from Pau, they had a _panne_, as they say in France, and their motor,
which had behaved remarkably well until that moment, entered Pau
ignominiously at the end of a long tow-rope. As it