The Westminster Art School closed for a short Easter recess, when I had been nine months in London, nine months of hating the bustle, the crowd, the noise, the smell. I said, “Mrs. Radcliffe, is there a little village that you know of where I could go and be in real country?” “There is the village of Goudhurst in Kent. It has a comfortable Inn; I have stayed there myself.” There was another student…
I had been a year in England when my favourite sister came from Canada to visit me. Wild with excitement I engaged rooms in the centre of the sightseeing London. Houses and landladies had to be approached through a rigorous reference system of Mrs. Radcliffe’s. I pinned my best studies on the wall of the rooms, thinking my sister would want to see them. She came in the evening. We talked all through that…
One day when Wattie and I were crossing Leadenhall Street we were halted by a Bobby to let a carriage pass. The wheels grazed our impatient haste. We looked up petulantly into the carriage and our eyes met those of Queen Victoria, smiling down on us. Chatter ceased, our breath held when Her Majesty smiled right into our surprised faces. She gave us a private, most gracious bow, not a majestic sweeping one to…