ok upon the fifth decade as the grave of all tender
illusions and emotions, and exult!

My tender illusions and emotions became realties--things to live by
and for. As Barty and I "dipped our noses in the Gascon
wine"--Vougeot-Conti & Co.--I blessed my stars for being free of
Marsfield, which was, and is still, my real home, and for the warm
friendship of its inhabitants who have been my real family, and for
several years of unclouded happiness all round.

Even in winter what a joy it was, after a long solitary walk, or
ride, or drive, or railway journey, to suddenly find myself at dusk
in the midst of all that warmth and light and gayety; what a
contrast to the House of Commons; what a relief after Barge Yard or
Downing Street; what tea that was, what crumpets and buttered toast,
what a cigarette; what romps and jokes, and really jolly good fun;
and all that delightful untaught music that afterwards became so
cultivated! Music was a special inherited gift of the entire family,
and no trouble or expense was ever spared to make the best and the
most of it.

Roberta became the most finished and charming amateur pianist I ever
heard, and as for Mary _la rossignolle_--Mrs. Trevor--she's almost
as famous as if she had made singing her profession, as she once so
wished to do. She married happily instead, a better profession
still; and though her songs are as highly paid for as any--except,
perhaps, Madame Patti's--every penny goes to the poor.

She can make a nigger melody sound worthy of Schubert and a song of
Schumann go down with the common herd as if it were a nigger melody,
and obtain a genuine encore for it from quite simple people.

Why, only the other night she and her husband dined with me at the
Bristol, and we went to Baron Schwartzkind's in Piccadilly to meet
Royal Highnesses.

Up comes the Baron with:

"Ach, Mrs. Drefor! vill you not zing zomzing? ze Brincess vould be
so jarmt."

"I'll sing as much as you like, Baron, if you promise me you'll send
a checque for L50 to the Foundling Hospital to-morrow morning," says
Mary.

"_I_'ll send _another_ fifty, Baron," says Bob Maurice. And the
Baron had to comply, and Mary sang again and again, and the Princess
was more than charmed.

She declared herself enchanted, and yet it was Brahms and Schumann
that Mary sang; no pretty little English ballad, no French, no
Italian.

"Aus meinen Thraenen spriessen
Viel' bluehende Blumen hervor;
Und m