Mary Wemyss was one of the most distinguished of the Souls and was as wise as she was just, truthful, tactful, and generous.  She might have been a great influence, as indeed she was always a great pleasure, but she was both physically and mentally badly equipped for coping with life and spent and wasted more time than was justifiable on plans which could have been done by any good servant.  It would not have mattered the endless discussion whether the brougham fetching one part of the family from one station and a bus fetching another part of it from another interfered with a guest catching a five or a five-to-five train—­which could or could not be stopped—­if one could have been quite sure that Mary Wemyss needed her friend so much that another opportunity would be given for an intimate interchange of confidences; but plan-weaving blinds people to a true sense of proportion and my beloved Mary never had enough time for any of us.  She is the only woman I know or have ever known without smallness or touchiness of any kind.  Her juste milieu, if a trifle becalmed, amounts to genius; and I was—­and still am—­more interested in her moral, social and intellectual opinions than in most of my friends’.  Some years ago I wrote this in my diary about her: 

“Mary is generally a day behind the fair and will only hear of my death from the man behind the counter who is struggling to clinch her over a collar for her chow.”

One of the less prominent of the Souls was my friend, Lionel Tennyson.[Footnote:  Brother of the present Lord Tennyson.] He was the second son of the poet and was an official in the India Office.  He had an untidy appearance, a black beard and no manners.  He sang German beer-songs in a lusty voice and wrote good verses.

He sent me many poems, but I think these two are the best.  The first was written to me on my twenty-first birthday, before the Souls came into existence: 

    What is a single flower when the world is white
      with may? 
    What is a gift to one so rich, a smile to one so gay? 
    What is a thought to one so rich in the loving
      thoughts of men? 
    How should I hope because I sigh that you will
      sigh again? 
        Yet when you see my gift, you may
        (Ma bayadere aux yeux de jais)
        Think of me once to-day.

    Think of me as you will, dear girl, if you will let
      me be
    Somewhere enshrined within the fane of your pure
      memory;
    Think of your poet as of one who only thinks of
      you,
    That you are all his thought, that he were happy
      if he knew—­
        You did receive his gift, and say
        (Ma bayadere aux yeux de jais)
        “He thinks of me to-day.”

And this is the second: 

    She drew me from my cosy seat,
    She drew me to her cruel feet,
    She whispered, “Call me Sally!”
    I lived upon her smile, her sigh,
    Alas, you fool, I knew not I
        Was only her pis-aller.