"You can never guess what those colored bits of glass in the top are. They are fragments from the windows of Rheims Cathedral."

"Ah, this is a scandal," I said. "The French Government is doubtless searching for them now. They are endeavoring to piece those windows together again, you know."

"Then they will have to duplicate these, I fear." She laughed. "I asked if you liked the box, because my unappreciative husband does n't, or did not. What would you do with a man like that? I had the box made, with the bits of glass carefully inlaid, and placed it upon his desk in his study as a birthday surprise. For days it remained unnoticed. He even took cigarettes from it without being aware that it existed. Finally, one day it dawned upon him that an unaccustomed object was encumbering his working space, and demanded, 'What is this thing doing on my desk?' That is the way he appreciates my gifts!" They laughed heartily.

On my return from an absence of two months on the Continent I received several delightful letters from Mr. Conrad, and an autographed copy of his novel, "The Arrow of Gold." "I wanted you to have this," he told me later, "because it has to do with part of my own life story." Another Sunday visit to Bishopsbourne followed.

As we sat in the handsome, well lighted drawing-room, a remark was made about the loveliness of the house and its surroundings.

"This place has been a great disappointment to me," Mr. Conrad said. "I have never liked it, mostly because it is in a valley, I think. Why did the stupid people of this locality build

their houses in places like this when there are so many hills to build upon? I should like to be able to see the horizon, with a view of the sea, if possible. If there were only one long vista between the hills, it would rest me much. As it is, I hardly feel that I can breathe here. And the rooms are so bad and ugly, all except this one. I go from one to another, sometimes wondering which is worst, and at last I have decided that it is my study. Yes, it is the worst of the lot. I hate it. If you do anything that displeases me, I'll punish you by taking you there!"

It is interesting to see Conrad and his wife together. The pleasure of each in the company of the other is evident. Twice I heard him attempt to tease her by making some mischievous remark about the queerness of "these English" and their ways, the only response being a happy smile. She showed me a book of photographs of various members of her family and his, the object being for me to see his pictures as a child. And a wonderful little chap he was, in his quaint Polish habiliments, slender and sensitive, with eager dreaming eyes. In the smooth little face one could easily see the resemblance to the mature head of our host, though the smoothness was replaced by vigorous planes and furrows, and the whole effect Anglicized by monocle and tweeds.

Mr. Conrad places a high estimate on the work of Arnold Bennett.

"I knew him as a boy just beginning to write. He was modest, almost shy, but with tremendous confidence in himself. He came to me with his early efforts, and I remember one day, when Wells was with me, he suddenly forgot his shyness, and, striding up

and down the room, told us what he expected to do. 'In ten years,' he said, 'I will be one of the most popular writers in England.' We exchanged a smile at this, but hanged if he did n't go and do it!"

For Chesterton, too, he has the greatest admiration. I remarked that in some of his earlier writings his insistence on a rather mechanical form of topsyturvy paradox had almost maddened me.

"True," he said, "after about ninety pages of somersaults I have sometimes been a bit fed up, but, if you will notice, when he turns one of these flipflops, almost invariably he lands on both feet, and astonishingly near the truth. He will stand as one of the biggest literary figures of this time."

I descended at Thornsett Road, Anerley, and from the solid row of pleasant, modest dwellings selected No. 14, and, crossing the little front garden, rang the bell. The door was opened by a tall, dark girl with a pretty face, and her pleasant voice informed me that I had found my destination-the house of Walter de la Mare. Entering a little hall, I was conducted to a living-room at the back of the house, where through a broad window a smaller rear garden was revealed.

The tall young lady informed me that her father would join me almost immediately, and soon I was confronted by a dark man of medium height, with olive skin and eager, sparkling, black eyes. His black, moderately short hair seemed rebelliously to declare its independence over the taming efforts of comb and brush, breaking into triumphant curls

at the front. The spirit of his hair seemed typical of the man, for the smile that came often and easily made me think that the small boy within him was always eager to break the bonds of maturity. Here surely was the ringleader of all his childrens' romping, and well could I picture him writing his first poems for their amusement. Here was a poet of inquisitive, exuberant normality, without the eccentricities usually attributed to his kind.

As I started my sketch of him he plied me with questions, and soon had from me almost more information about myself than I suspected I possessed. Finally I protested. "I say, whose interview is this, anyway, yours or mine?" I think, on the whole, it was his; he laughingly said his life had been quite simple and that there was little to tell. As I have already said, his first verses were written for his own children, and ultimately produced in book form. Other volumes followed, and novels as well, the latter meeting with a more ready response from the public.

We talked for a while about the graphic arts, and then about the relations existing between the arts. He had noticed that painters frequently write, but that writers can seldom draw. Why did I think this was so?

"Painting and drawing require a special technic," I replied, "while the medium of words is common to us all. And in this day of incontinent printing-presses, nearly every one tries his hand at writing at one time or another, whether he has talent or not."

"But you artists, having a conception of composition and values in your own art, have an advantage over the literary aspirant who knows nothing

of these things. frequently most excellent."

Tea was served by Mrs. de la Mare and the two daughters, and the younger of their two sons was there. The freedom with which the children joined in the general conversation made them seem more like an American family than an English one, and the quality of their contributions was excellent. They made me feel that "Peacock Pie" is splendid fare for the nourishment of infants.

At a late hour I took my leave, accompanied by my host lest I lose myself in an endeavor to find the quicker route home that he had planned for me. As a tram-car came in sight at the end of the street, he was after it, running like a school-boy, while I followed close at his heels. My last glimpse revealed him standing in the middle of the track, shouting that I should come to see them soon again when I could visit without having to do any work.

§ 3

Who has not thrilled to those splendid romances, "King Solomon's Mines," "She," and "Allan Quatermain"? Well do I remember as a boy the appearance serially of "Montezuma's Daughter," and how hopelessly far away the arrival of the next instalment seemed, though the medium was a daily paper. And the name H. Rider Haggard! The sound of it dashing, almost sinister. Death on the pale horse could suggest little more to me then.

What a different man from the one of these childish dreams I found when found when I met him recently in London! He is very tall, angular, and huge of frame. His bones are big. He looks like a

He began life as a barrister, but when his first successful novels appeared, his law practice suffered. Then followed government service in Natal and South Africa, and later in other parts of the world. He became an authority on empire migration and on imperial and social conditions, and was sent on various missions as the special commissioner of his Government. Beside knighthood, he has received many honors. In Canada a mountain and a glacier have been named for him, and for activities aside from his writing.

I was greatly entertained by Sir Rider's humorous account of the endeavors of people to add to his many accomplishments and professions that of the physician. On the day previous to our sitting he had attended a garden party given by the King at Buckingham Palace. Here he was approached by a titled pair who wished to express their gratitude to him for having been instrumental in saving the life of their son. If I recall rightly, the boy was suffering from pneumonia, had reached the crisis, and it was vital that he be made to perspire. They tried many things to secure this end, but without success. The patient was very weak and listless. Nothing interested him until they tried reading to him from one of Sir Rider's books. At once his curiosity was aroused, and when a thrilling climax was reached, he broke into a profuse perspiration. From then his recovery was rapid.