Many of the tragedies, the failures, and mysteries of business routine which she so often depicted in her books, she wrote from personal knowledge. Misfortunes fell upon her family and, as she was the one to try to put matters right, she naturally learnt many curious ins and outs of speculation and failure. Had she not always had her hand in her pocket for someone, she would not have been so miserably off financially when old age and sickness overtook her. She wrote her first novel when only fifteen; but this she candidly admitted never saw the light. In my early writing days I remember asking Mrs. Riddell for an introduction. “What?” she replied. “Introductions are no good; the best and only introduction to an editor is a good article.” How right she was! Mrs. Riddell once told me she collected the whole of a three-volume novel in her head—all novels were then in three volumes—and for weeks and months she worried out the story. When it was quite complete she wrote the last, or the most telling chapter of the book, first. For instance, Beryl’s death scene in _George Geith_ was set down just as it appeared in print three years subsequently. As I have said, it was my privilege to know Mrs. J. H. Riddell from my childhood. She was an old and valued friend of my father, and in the curious jumbling of early recollections I recall eating my first ice at her house at Hampstead, and being obliged to confess, with a cold lump of surprise on my tongue, “It isn’t as nice as I ’spected.” A remark she recalled with amusement years afterwards. I do not suppose I was more than five years of age at that time, but I can remember perfectly well the kindly and charming face of the hostess, and her dark brown hair, which she wore in a loose curl hanging behind each ear.