She, too, was an orphan, and lived with her uncle, a rich banker, who,
as a diversion, consented to represent his country at foreign courts.
Her given name was Phyllis. I had seen the name a thousand times in
print; the poets had idealised it, and the novelists had embalmed it in
tender phrases. It was the first time I had ever met a woman by the
name of Phyllis. It appealed to my poetic instinct. Perhaps that was
the cause of it all. And then, she was very beautiful. In the autumn
of that year we became great friends; and through her influence I began
to see beyond the portals of the mansions of the rich. Matthew Prior's
Chloes and Sir John Suckling's Euphelias lost their charms. Henceforth
my muse's name became Phyllis. I took her to the opera when I didn't
know where I was going to breakfast on the morrow. I sent her roses
and went without tobacco, a privation of which woman knows nothing.
Often I was plunged into despair at my distressed circumstances. Money
to her meant something to spend; to me it meant something to get. Her
income bothered her because she could not spend it; my income was
mortgaged a week in advance, and did not bother me at all.
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