That was in the distant ’eighties, when the modern young woman, who filled her with such holy horror, was, after all, but a poor, shrinking creature compared with the amazons of 1907, who marched to Hyde Park to demand votes for women. A desire for the development of her own individuality, freed from the control of parents and the enforced escort of brothers, a latch-key, a club, and a _mode_ of short hair, waistcoats, men’s coats, and even hard shirts, besides a horse-shoe pin, were all that the “Girl of the Period” advanced; but, in contemptuous condemnation of her, Mrs. Lynn Linton dipped her pen in gall. Dear me! what an archaic type she already seems, that original “new woman” whom one used to find at the Pioneer Club in its early days. Perhaps it is as well that Mrs. Lynn Linton did not live to see suffragists concealed in pantechnicon vans for the purpose of raiding Parliament, or shouting down Cabinet Ministers, assaulting policemen, smashing windows, and going to prison in hundreds with as much self-glorification as if they were notorious criminals and heroines of a “Penny Dreadful.” The dictionary surely does not contain words so scathing as the old lady would have required for such flagrant revolters against her ideal of womanhood. That women suffragettes have an ideal she would not have understood. The curt indifference of men to their more peaceable demands has forced women to perpetrate these antics to draw attention to their creed. She was herself a woman who was greatly misunderstood. The conception formed by the public, who knew Mrs. Lynn Linton only by her writings, was entirely different from that of people who were privileged to know her personally. All her venom was in her pen, all her heart in her home and her friends. I have reason to recall her name with gratitude, for she was one of the first to assist me by helpful advice and example along the slippery path of authorship. Indeed, her readiness to place her long experience at the service of young writers, who were often entirely unknown to her, even at the sacrifice of considerable time and convenience to herself, was one of the most delightful points in her character. One day, late in the last century, I was chatting with her in her flat eight stories up in Queen Anne’s Mansions, the windows of which looked out high over the neighbouring chimney-pots and far away beyond the grey mist of smoky London to the Surrey hills. Lying on the table was a large bundle of manuscripts, upon which I naturally remarked, “What a lot of work you have there on hand; surely that means two or three new books?”