THE GIRL IS MOTHER TO THE WOMAN As the boy is proverbially father to the man, so is the girl mother to the woman. Looking back, over thirteen years of exacting professional work, beginning in 1896—the sad cause and necessity for which will be told later—my destiny seems to have been that of a writer. True, on my first coming out the stage was my girlish ambition. Elsewhere[3] I have told how, after the success and delirious delight of the private theatricals given at home for me instead of a ball—at my own request—there came a tempting offer to make my bow behind the footlights. Breathless with excitement I rushed downstairs to tell my father and receive his approval. He heard my story, looked very sad, and declared it should never be with his consent: “Of all professions for women he disliked most the stage, especially for one so young.” My dream was shattered, but the longing to work remained: _Je l’ai dans le sang_. Looking back now, difficult though it is to see one’s own growth, there was doubtless the worker dimly trying to struggle out of the enveloping husk of protecting conventionalities: something within me wanting to find an outlet, a means of _self-expression_. In girlhood one hates the conventionalities. For instance, how I chafed at the care demanded in handling old family treasures and wished the cut-glass decanters, the old Scotch silver salvers, the Italian embroidered cushions, and all the other details of a refined home, at the bottom of the sea. I used mentally to vow that when I had a home of my own I would never have anything that cost more than sixpence, and would wear it out and throw it away. I did not then realise that little by little the love of beautiful things, fine workmanship, rich colours, coupled with reverence for ancient family gods, was being fostered within me. Environment is of enormous importance in a child’s life. Heredity and environment are three-fourths of character, the other fourth being left to chance and circumstances; and character counts for more in the end than any other asset in life. If we are born into a refined home, we learn to hate vulgar things, we are not interested in vulgar people, and, however poor we may become, that love of culture and good taste never leaves us. In spite of the tales and explanations that my father gave us about beautiful things of art, or curios, it must be owned these wearied me. But when the day for work came, some of them formed the nucleus and inspiration of the half-dozen articles the grown woman turned out every week for the Press. The influence of that Harley-Street home was very strong. I left it when young for a house of my own, but its atmosphere went with me.