and their families during the recent lock-out, and who know what it is to see "little ones cry for bread" when bread for them there is none, are not likely to have much patience with poets who moan and melodise about their broken hearts (which, of course, are never broken) and the imaginary slights of their sweethearts or mistresses, especially when, as in so many instances, the sweethearts and mistresses are as fanciful creatures as the supposed heart-breaks.'
After the meeting Morris took us to supper—the company including my sister and brother-in-law, Sam Bullock, Philip Webb, Andreas Scheu, and several others. Morris (I may be pardoned the vanity of noting) was most attentive towards my wife, talking with her about her college and propaganda experiences. Recollecting that the decorations and furnishings of her college (Newnham) had been the work of the Morris Company, he inquired about their state of preservation, and was pleased to hear that they had proved durable and were appreciated by the students. He was greatly interested when he discovered that she had been brought up at Walthamstow, where he himself had been born, and inquired about some of the folk he remembered there, particularly a vehement old character, Farmer Hitchman.
Next day we came round at his request to see him for an hour in his study, when he showed my wife some of his literary treasures, and gave us as a wedding token a copy of one of his Kelmscott Press books in vellum, inscribed with our names.
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Morris was now entering upon the closing period of his life, of which only three years were yet to run. His career as an active worker in the Socialist movement was already virtually over. He had but recently given no little time and much earnest thought to the project of trying by means of a joint Socialist Committee to bring about
