“Plays are funny things,” he continued. “A few years ago I received a letter from a young man in the country. He said his people were strict Methodists, he had never been in a theatre in his life, he had not even been allowed to read Shakespeare, but _Three Plays_ by Shaw had fallen into his hands, and he had read them. He felt he must write a play. He had written one. Would I read it? I did. It was crude, curious, middle-aged, stinted, and yet the true dramatic element was there. He had evolved a village drama from his own soul. I wrote and told him to go on, and showed him his faults, but never heard any more of him. “Once a leading actor-manager of mine took to drink. I heard it; peril seemed imminent. I wrote and told him I had met a journalist, named Moriarty, who had found him drunk in the street; explained that under the influence of alcohol he had divulged the most appalling things, which, if true, would make it necessary for me to find someone else to play the part. Terrible despair! Many letters at intervals. I continued to cite Moriarty, and all went well. One fine day a letter came, saying my manager had met the tale-bearer. He had happened to call at a lady’s house, and there Moriarty stood. The furious manager nearly rushed at his enemy’s throat to kill him; but being in a woman’s drawing-room, he deferred his revenge. Nevertheless, he would, by Jove, he would do it next time, if he heard any more tales. Vengeance, daggers! “Then I quaked. I had to write and say my ‘Moriarty’ was a myth, so he had better leave the unoffending personage alone.” And G. B. S. twinkled merrily through those sleepy grey eyes as he told the tale. Once I was inveigled into editing and arranging a souvenir book for University College Hospital, of which more anon. I asked Mr. Shaw to do something for the charity. This is his characteristic reply, written on a post card: [Illustration: 10 ADELPHI TERRACE W.C. 15ᵗʰ. Feb. 1909. No, Mʳˢ. Alec. NO. NO. NO. I never do it, not even for my best friends. I loathe bazaars G. B. S.] Yet another public dinner stands out prominently in my memory. Quite a crowd attended the Women Journalists’ Dinner of November, 1907. Mrs. Humphry Ward was in the chair. Next to her was the Italian Ambassador, the Marquis di San Giuliano, and then myself. My neighbour was especially interesting as the descendant of an old Sicilian family, Lords of Catania since the time of the Crusades, and also because he himself had earned a considerable name in literature. Later he left London for the Embassy in Paris, and is now in Rome, as Minister for Foreign Affairs. Taking up my card, his Excellency exclaimed: “Why, are you the lady who wrote that charming book on Sicily?” I nodded. “I am a Sicilian, and I thank you, madam,” he said. In fact, in the exuberance of his spirits, he shook and re-shook me by the hand. We became great friends, and he often came in to have a talk about his native land.