” and The Burdett Coutts Memorial Prize which she had won; and we must snatch space to remark how discomposing it is for her biographer that this culmination to which the whole book moved, this peroration with which the book was to end, should be dashed from us on a laugh casually like this; but the truth is that when we write of a woman, everything is out of place⁠—culminations and perorations; the accent never falls where it does with a man). Fame! she repeated. A poet⁠—a charlatan; both every morning as regularly as the post comes in. To dine, to meet; to meet, to dine; fame⁠—fame! (She had here to slow down to pass through the crowd of market people. But no one noticed her. A porpoise in a fishmonger’s shop attracted far more attention than a lady who had won a prize and might, had she chosen, have worn three coronets one on top of another on her brow.) Driving very slowly she now hummed as if it were part of an old song, “With my guineas I’ll buy flowering trees, flowering trees, flowering trees and walk among my flowering-trees and tell my sons what fame is.” So she hummed, and now all her words began to sag here and there like a barbaric necklace of heavy beads. “And walk among my flowering trees,” she sang, accenting the words strongly, “and see the moon rise slow, the wagons go.⁠ ⁠…” Here she stopped short, and looked ahead of her intently at the bonnet of the car in profound meditation.