'Early in 1888 my grandmother was taken ill, and my sister Mary and I went daily to Albert Hall Mansions to help my eldest sister and do errands for her. I spent many hours sitting on the floor by one of the rosewood vaneer book cases, which I still possess, reading a varied assortment of works ranging from the Ehtics of Aristotle, through all the nineteenth century poets, down to the poems of Bulwer Lytton, written under the name of Owen Meredith.'