Arthur had to grow up; to go to Oxford. His mother had to die. Sheltering him with her love to the very last, she refused to allow the servants to telegraph to him as long as she remained conscious. When at last they disobeyed her, it was too late. Her delicate son was spared, as she had intended, the strain of a death-bed farewell.

After her death, his health improved greatly, for he had to stand on his own feet. This novel and painful attitude was considerably eased by the small fortune he had inherited. He had money enough to last him, according to the standards of social London in the nineties, for at least ten years. He spent it in rather less than two. ‘It was at that time,’ said Arthur, ‘that I first learnt the meaning of the word “luxury.” Since then, I am sorry to say, I have been forced to add others to my vocabulary; horrid ugly ones, some of them.’ ‘I wish,’ he remarked simply, on another occasion, ‘I had that money now, I should know what to do with it.’ In those days he was only twenty two and didn’t know.