Little boys home from school had to be fed at meals, amused between tea and dinner during that precious “children’s hour,” and I often left my bed in the morning, to begin another strenuous day, more tired than I had entered it the previous night. But mediocrity and determination succeeded where genius and inspiration might have failed. One rule, and a very good rule, for success is never to let one’s self get out of hand. If anybody cannot rule himself, he cannot rule his life. Age has nothing to do with success. Byron, Burns, and Shelley all wrote priceless gems in youthful years, and, on the other hand, Samuel Smiles never took up his pen until he was past forty, and was then read by millions all over the world and translated into a dozen languages. Often in those days I longed for my old world. I was too proud to tell people I could not afford a cab, and a bus fare was often a consideration. My beautiful evening dresses were out of date. Opera-cloaks and tea-gowns were laid aside in tissue paper—quite inappropriate for a journalist living in a country cottage. I used to long for a night at a theatre, a whirling dance, a day on the river. But no, life was one round of work, work, work. Thoughtless friends, out of the kindness of their heart, invited me to stay with them. Wealth of gold often accompanies poverty of mind. They thought they were helping me—they had not brains to see I could not afford the ticket to Scotland, the clothes necessary for them and their guests, or the stupendous tips required in large households—a life of pleasure now seemed to me merely fierce misery. What time I could spare from my work I spent resting, often in bed. Worn out mentally, bodily repose seemed the only way of re-stoking the engine for a further pull uphill.