why. For Marie Corelli does not shroud herself in obscurity, does not affect the life of the recluse, does not pretend to be other than she is—a winsome, warm-hearted, sunny-natured woman, who enjoys life to the full, and would have others enjoy theirs, who has ideals and tries to live up to them, and who asks only to be freed from vulgar intrusion and the slanderous shafts of unseen enemies. In her delightful Stratford home she lives in a serene atmosphere; she regards the spot as hallowed; she has the artist's love of the beautiful Warwickshire scenery, and the woman's tenderness for all around her; the cottagers know her charity, and all good causes enjoy her aid and patronage. Here she dwells in a happy environment, and works with ardor, for her day's labor begins at sunrise; yet she has always a spare hour for a friend, or a spare afternoon in which to act the gracious hostess towards visitors.
What first strikes one on meeting Miss Corelli is her intensely sympathetic nature. She will be found in all probability amid her choice flowers in the spacious Winter Garden, and her face irradiates as she advances to meet you with outstretched hands and smiling lips. A small creature, with a mass of waving golden hair—"pale gold such as the Tuscan's early art prefers"—with dimpled cheeks and expressive eyes, almost childlike at first glance but with immense reserves of energy—that is Marie Corelli; but her chief charm is perhaps the liquid softness of her voice. She began life as a singer and musician, and as one hears her speak it is easy to understand that had she not been a force in literature she might have been a controlling influence in the world of song. In the hall her harp still stands, but more often her fingers stray over the notes of a piano, perchance making the instrument give forth a melody of her own composing.
