their fares to gaze upon the residence of the popular writer. Sometimes her admirers, although absolute strangers, venture to call upon her; but there is an astute and diplomatic butler at Mason Croft who takes very good care that his mistress is not unnecessarily disturbed when she is working.
It is this resolute working of hers that—coupled with her extraordinary gifts—has made the name of Marie Corelli one to conjure with. Week in, week out, she toils at her desk for several hours every morning, and it is by such methods of regularity and application that she has succeeded in writing such long, as well as such successful, novels.
The following sketch, contributed to the Manchester Chronicle last summer by the editor, Mr. J. Cuming Walters, affords a very complete picture of Marie Corelli as she is to-day:—
In the old-world town of Stratford-on-Avon
stands an Elizabethan red-brick house, its window-*sills
brightened with flowers which hang down
in profusion and impart gaiety of aspect to the
ancient and time-worn edifice. Here, near the
Guild Church and the school that Shakespeare
knew, in the quietest part of the town, dwells, with
her loyal companion and friend, Miss Marie Corelli.
What manner of woman is this most popular novelist of the hour, who has the reading world at her feet, and who has conquered the hearts of millions? Until lately she was thought to be a mystery. One has only to know her to marvel
