Each despises the other and nurses his own illusions. But, after all, life would be deadly were it not for its illusions. CHAPTER VII WRITERS: SIR WALTER BESANT, JOHN OLIVER HOBBES, MRS. RIDDELL, MRS. LYNN LINTON New! Why, there is nothing new. The only luck is to pitch on something old enough to be forgotten. The writing profession is a hard and often underpaid one, but one thing may be said, that writers are ever ready and willing to help each other. We can most of us testify to this by kindnesses received. Sir Walter Besant was the very embodiment of this spirit of helpfulness, not only to me personally, but also to the literary world at large, and it was he who conceived the idea of bringing this same friendliness into a common centre by establishing the Incorporated Society of Authors. Having touched on the toil, sorrows, and worries of “work,” it is pleasant to pass on to the silver lining to the cloud. I cannot remember when I first met Sir Walter Besant, although two or three meetings stand forth distinctly in the tangled web of recollection. One of the many kind things he did for me was soon after my election to the Society of Authors. A dinner was announced. I had never been to a public dinner in my life, but as a member of that august body I had a right to be present. Naturally wishing to go, I wrote a little letter to Sir Walter, saying that I simply dared not go alone; did he know any lady who would join forces with me? “I quite understand,” he replied; “you are young and new at the game, and may bring any guest you like. If you take my advice you will let it be a man, and not a woman, because, I think, you will have a better evening’s enjoyment.” From that moment women writers were allowed a guest. Accordingly, with a man as my “chaperon,” I attended my first public dinner. Afterwards, when I was in great anxiety as to ways and means of obtaining a pension for the late Mrs. J. H. Riddell, I went one day to see Besant at his office in Soho Square. He was surrounded—half buried, in fact—by manuscripts, for he was then correcting his books on London—the really joyful work of his literary life. Volumes strewed the floor, volumes were stacked upon the writing-table, volumes lay pell-mell on the chairs. In fact, there was nowhere to sit or stand; London on paper filled the room. He quite sympathised with my difficult task, but said there was then no fund available to which one could apply; and I asked if it would not be possible to form, in connection with the Society of Authors, some sort of Pension Fund for writers who had made fame but not fortune. “Well, I don’t know; it might be,” he said. As I poured forth a string of enthusiastic suggestions the dear old gentleman listened calmly and quietly, gazing through his gold spectacles in wonderment at my volubility. “Not a bad idea,” he remarked.