At that time James was living at Number 34 De Vere Gardens. He was beginning to weary of London life and casting about as to how he might escape its exactions. We had many pleasant excursions together; he was a famous sight-seer and knew his London well. I always felt in him a certain defenselessness in the matter of guarding his own time. He was forever being called upon to write introductions to other people’s books and to listen to other writers’ manuscripts. He was over generous in these things and I often felt a righteous indignation against the swarm of less important authors, Mrs. Humphry Ward among them, who somehow managed to steal his only possession, his time, and impose upon his good nature. We went much to the theater. While the English stage at this time could not be seriously compared to the French or Italian, it was far better than the American, and there were some good companies in London. Charles Wyndham, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Beerbohm Tree, John Hare, and Forbes-Robertson were all acting. At the Lyceum Ellen Terry and Henry Irving, both at the height of their powers, were playing Shakespeare. We saw magnificent productions of the “Merchant of Venice”, “Henry the Eighth”, and “Hamlet.” Witty Mary Abbott told us of a cockney comedian’s criticism of Sir Henry. “Look at ‘Enery Hirving! Look at ’is ’Amlet! Asthmatic, I grant you, but werry wulgar. Give ’im a song and dance and where is ’e?” Not long after seeing Ellen Terry’s entrancing acting of Beatrice, J. and I met her former husband, the great artist George F. Watts. My diary gives an account of our visit, but does not mention that I was haunted throughout by Miss Terry’s voice and face. I could not imagine her at home in Watts’ quiet, well-ordered house. They seemed as far apart as the poles, and yet she once reigned here supreme. There’s a legend that during their brief married life Watts often gave large stag dinners where his child wife was not expected to appear. This was little to her liking. One evening, when a grave company of distinguished men were seated at the board, the lovely madcap appeared suddenly from under the table, where she had been hiding, dressed as Cupid in silk tights and wings, sprang upon the table, and ran its length before the astonished guests. “_Se non è vero, è ben trovato._”