I took my girls for an annual treat to the country every summer, starting at eight in the morning and getting back to London at midnight.  We drove in three large wagonettes behind four horses, accompanied by a brass band.  On one occasion I was asked if the day could be spent at Caterham, because there were barracks there.  I thought it a dreary place and strayed away by myself, but Phoebe and her friends enjoyed glueing their noses to the rails and watching the soldiers drill.  I do not know how the controversy arose, but when I joined them I heard Phoebe shout through the railings that some one was a “bloody fish!” I warned her that I should leave Cliffords for ever, if she went on provoking rows and using such violent language, and this threat upset her; for a short time she was on her best behaviour, but I confess I find the poor just as uninfluenceable and ungrateful as the rich, and I often wonder what became of Phoebe Whitman.

At the end of July I told the girls that I had to leave them, as I was going back to my home in Scotland.

Phoebe:  “You don’t know, lady, how much we all feels for you having to live in the country.  Why, when you pointed out to us on the picnic-day that kind of a tower-place, with them walls and dark trees, and said it reminded you of your home, we just looked at each other!  ‘Well, I never!’ sez I; and we all shuddered!”

None of the girls knew what my name was or where I lived till they read about me in the picture-papers, eight years later at the time of my marriage.

When I was not in the East-end of London, I wandered about looking at the shop-windows in the West.  One day I was admiring a photograph of my sister Charty in the window of Macmichael’s, when a footman touched his hat and asked me if I would speak to “her Grace” in the carriage.  I turned round and saw the Duchess of Manchester [Footnote:  Afterwards the late Dutchess of Devonshire]; as I had never spoken to her in my life, I wondered what she could possibly want me for.  After shaking hands, she said: 

“Jump in, dear child!  I can’t bear to see you look so sad.  Jump in and I’ll take you for a drive and you can come back to tea with me.”

I got into the carriage and we drove round Hyde Park, after which I followed her upstairs to her boudoir in Great Stanhope Street.  In the middle of tea Queen Alexandra—­then Princess of Wales—­ came in to see the Duchess.  She ran in unannounced and kissed her hostess.

My heart beat when I looked at her.  She had more real beauty, both of line and expression, and more dignity than any one I had ever seen; and I can never forget that first meeting.

These were the days of the great beauties.  London worshipped beauty like the Greeks.  Photographs of the Princess of Wales, Mrs. Langtry, Mrs. Cornwallis West, Mrs. Wheeler and Lady Dudley [Footnote:  Georgiana, Countess of Dudley.] collected crowds in front of the shop windows.  I have seen great and conventional ladies like old Lady Cadogan and others standing on iron chairs in the Park to see Mrs. Langtry walk past; and wherever Georgiana Lady Dudley drove there were crowds round her carriage when it pulled up, to see this vision of beauty, holding a large holland umbrella over the head of her lifeless husband.