A great solid silver donkey with panniers which must hold a pint of ink, stands on a table close to an oval Venetian glass framed in gold and silver. Mrs. Reeves observes that though she has no writing-table, that is her especial ink-stand, which is carried about from room to room. It was given to her when very young, and, she laughingly adds, "You can imagine all the complimentary remarks the boys at home made to me about it." She goes on to say, "I always loved a good laugh, even though it were against myself. We were such a happy united family in the big old house. We are all scattered now," she remarks sadly; "some are dead, some are abroad, and one sister, who married a son of Dr. Russell, of _Times_ renown, is in China with her husband."
Mrs. Reeves is essentially a domestic woman. She cares comparatively but little for society, and is never as happy as when at home, with her husband sitting on the other side of the fire-place, like "Darby and Joan." She is excellent company, and a brilliant conversationalist. She possesses that good gift, a low, sweet voice, which glides on from topic to topic--now gay, with flashes of wit and mirth, now subdued to gravity or pathos. Albeit, she is a good listener, and has the happy knack of drawing out talk. Yet, though constantly conversing on people and social matters, not one unkindly word or suspicion of scandal escapes her lips. She has a good word to say for all, and speaks with affectionate gratitude of many. She prefers the company of woman, and says that her best friends have been those of her own sex. But the charm of her society has beguiled you into a long visit, and whilst bidding her good-bye the feeling arises that if a friend in need were wanted, a friend indeed would be found in "Helen Mathers."
Battling with a fierce snowstorm, and a keen east wind, which drives the flakes straight into your face like repeated stings of a small sharp whip, a welcome shelter is presently found in Florence Marryat's pretty, picturesque little house in St. Andrew's Road, West Kensington. Two bright red pots filled with evergreens mark the house, which is built in the Elizabethan style of architecture, with a covered verandah running along the upper part. By a strange coincidence, the famous author has settled down within a stone's throw of the place where her distinguished father--the late Captain Marryat, R.N.--once lived. Until three months ago, there stood in the Fulham Palace Road, a large, handsome building enclosed in ten acres of ground, which was first called "Brandenburg Villa," and was inhabited by the celebrated singer Madame Sontag. It next fell into the hands of the Duke of Sussex, who changed its name to Sussex House, and finally sold it to his equerry Captain Marryat, who exchanged it with Mrs. Alexander Copeland for the Manor of Langham, in Norfolk, where he died. For some years past Sussex House has been in Chancery, but now it is pulled down; the land is sold out in building plots, and the pleasure grounds will be turned into the usual streets and rows of houses for the needs of the ever-increasing population. The study--or as Florence Marryat calls it, her "literary workshop"--is very small, but so well arranged that it seems a sort of _multum in parvo_, everything a writer can want being at hand. It has a look of thorough snugness and comfort. The large and well-worn writing table is loaded with books of reference and a vast heap of tidily-arranged manuscript, betokening the fact that yet another new novel is under weigh. A massive brass inkstand, bright as gold, is flanked on each side by a fierce-looking dragon. Two of the walls are lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, filled with books which must number many hundreds of volumes. Over the fireplace hangs an old-fashioned round mirror set in a dull yellow frame, mounted on plush, around whose broad margin is displayed a variety of china plates, picked up in the many foreign countries which Miss Marryat has visited, and the effect is particularly good. The room is lighted at the further corner by glass doors opening into an aviary and conservatory, which is bright with many red-berried winter plants; this little glass-house opens on to the big kennels where Miss Marryat's canine pets are made so comfortable.