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owed something of his early success in England to the mystery by which he was surrounded. His fame was great, and preceded him from India. Like Disraeli, he did not seek the limelight.

When I first arrived in London I lived for a year or two in a private hotel in Thavies Inn. My hostess, a charming lady, was of very artistic tastes, and among her guests I met many interesting people. Those whom I recollect most clearly were a Mr. and Mrs. Kipling, from Lahore. Mrs. Kipling was, I believe, a connection of Sir Edward Burne-Jones—and a most fascinating and witty conversationalist. Her descriptions of India, her views on art, were delightfully instructive to a youth of nineteen. With beautiful eyes and a charming expression, I thought her the most fascinating of ladies. She was the mother of Rudyard Kipling. I remember one day Mrs. Kipling showing me with pride a photograph of her precocious son, then a boy of eight or nine, standing on a chair.

A characteristic of Kipling that never fails to arouse my admiration is his courage He has no timidity. He writes of the world as he finds it. I, too, have seen a good deal