However, in spite of all that bound me so closely to the great political world, I could not help feeling the claims of literature. I am sensitive to every claim. It is the claim of history, for example, that compels me to write my autobiography. I seem to see all around me a thousand human arts and activities crying for my help and interest. They seem to say "Marge, Marge, more Marge!" in the words that Goethe himself might have used. And whenever I hear the call I have to give myself. I doubt if any girl ever gave herself away quite as much as I have done. One day in November I met Chummie Popbright in the neighbourhood of Cambridge Circus. He was a man with very little _joie de vivre_, _ventre à terre_, or _esprit de corps_. He had fair hair and no manners, and was very, very fond of me. He held a position in the Post Office, and was, in fact, emptying a pillar-box when I met him. I record the conversation. CHUMMIE: Blessed if it ain't Marge! And what would you like for a Christmas present? MARGE: I want to spend a week or so at the house of the great poet, Lord Inmemorison. If you really wish to please me, you will use your influence to get me a job there. Your uncle being Inmemorison's butler, you ought to be able to work it. CHUMMIE: Might. What would you go as? MARGE: Anything--but temporary parlour-maid is my strong suit. CHUMMIE: And what's your game? MARGE: I'm sick of patronizing politicians and want to patronize a poet. When all's said and done, Inmemorison is a proper certificated poet. Besides, I want to put something by for my rainy autobiography. CHUMMIE: Oh, well. I'll try and lay a pipe for it. May come off or may not. Chummie managed the thing to perfection. My sister Casey wrote me one of the best testimonials I have ever had, and by Christmas I was safely installed for a week. Chummie's uncle treated me with the utmost consideration, and it is to him that I owe many of the thrilling details that I am now able to present to the panting public. Although there was a high leather screen in the drawing-room which was occasionally useful to me, my opportunities for direct observation were limited. Lord Inmemorison had a magnificent semi-detached mansion (including a bath-room, h. and c.) in one of the wildest and loneliest parts of Wandsworth Common. The rugged beauty of the scenery around is reflected in many of his poems. There were, as was to be expected, several departures from ordinary convention in the household. Dinner was at seven. The poet went to bed immediately after dinner, and punctually at ten reappeared in the drawing-room and began reading his poems aloud. The family generally went to bed at ten sharp.