To be rich is a luxurious sensation-the more so when you have plumbed the depths of hard-up-ness as a Fleet Street hack, a picker-up of unconsidered pars, a reporter, an unappreciated journalist-all callings utterly inconsistent with one's family feeling and one's direct descent from the Dukes of Picardy. When my Aunt Dorcas died and left me seven hundred a year and a furnished house in Chelsea, I felt that life had nothing left to offer except immediate possession of the legacy. Even Mildred Mayhew, whom I had hitherto regarded as my life's light, became less luminous. I was not engaged to Mildred, but I lodged with her mother, and I sang duets with Mildred, and gave her gloves when it would run to it, which was seldom. She was a dear good girl, and I meant to marry her some day. It is very nice to feel that a good little woman is thinking of you-it helps you in your work-and it is pleasant to know she will say "Yes" when you say "Will you?" But, as I say, my legacy almost put Mildred out of my head, especially as she was staying with friends in the country just then.