The jade! she knew her business well,
    She made each hour a heaven or hell,
    For she could coax and rally;
    She was so loving, frank and kind,
    That no suspicion crost my mind
        That I was her pis-aller.

    My brother says “I told you so! 
    Her conduct was not comme il faut,
    But strictly comme il fallait;
    She swore that she was fond and true;
    No doubt she was, poor girl, but you
        Were only her pis-aller.”

He asked me what I would like him to give me for a birthday present, and I said: 

“If you want to give me pleasure, take me down to your father’s country house for a Saturday to Monday.”

This Lionel arranged; and he and I went down to Aldworth, Haslemere, together from London.

While we were talking in the train, a distinguished old lady got in.  She wore an ample black satin skirt, small black satin slippers in goloshes, a sable tippet and a large, picturesque lace bonnet.  She did not appear to be listening to our conversation, because she was reading with an air of concentration; but, on looking at her, I observed her eyes fixed upon me.  I wore a scarlet cloak trimmed with cock’s feathers and a black, three-cornered hat.  When we arrived at our station, the old lady tipped a porter to find out from my luggage who I was; and when she died —­several years later—­she left me in her will one of my most valuable jewels.  This was Lady Margaret Beaumont; and I made both her acquaintance and friendship before her death.

Lady Tennyson was an invalid; and we were received on our arrival by the poet.  Tennyson was a magnificent creature to look at.  He had everything:  height, figure, carriage, features and expression.  Added to this he had what George Meredith said of him to me, “the feminine hint to perfection.”  He greeted me by saying: 

“Well, are you as clever and spurty as your sister Laura?”

I had never heard the word “spurty” before, nor indeed have I since.  To answer this kind of frontal attack one has to be either saucy or servile; so I said nothing memorable.  We sat down to tea and he asked me if I wanted him to dress for dinner, adding: 

“Your sister said of me, you know, that I was both untidy and dirty.”

To which I replied: 

“Did you mind this?”

Tennyson:  “I wondered if it was true.  Do you think I’m dirty?”

Margot:  “You are very handsome.”

Tennyson:  “I can see by that remark that you think I am.  Very well then, I will dress for dinner.  Have you read Jane Welsh Carlyle’s letters?”

Margot:  “Yes, I have, and I think them excellent.  It seems a pity,” I added, with the commonplace that is apt to overcome one in a first conversation with a man of eminence, “that they were ever married; with any one but each other, they might have been perfectly happy.”