Nestling between Knightsbridge on the north, and Brompton Road on the south, lies a quiet, old-fashioned square, which the organ-grinder and brass band are no longer permitted to disturb. Everything is so still that it is difficult to realise that it is within a few minutes' walk from a busy, noisy thoroughfare. So near and yet so far from London's "madding crowd." In summer time when the ancient trees, which are said never to have been disturbed for generations, are in full leaf, the little square might indeed be a slice out of the country itself; and even now, with bare and leafless branches, it presents a peaceful, rural appearance, for the hoar frost has covered every bough and shrub with a million of glittering particles, which sparkle like diamonds in the wintry sunshine. In the centre of the north side of Montpelier Square is Mrs. Lovett Cameron's home, a cheerful-looking little house, gay with window boxes, and fleecy muslin curtains draped with bright coloured ribbons. An application at the brass horseshoe knocker is promptly responded to, and you are admitted into the hall and vociferously greeted by "Nancy," a handsome fox-terrier, the pet of the house, a treasure-trove from the Dogs' Home. The first object which attracts the eye, and, as it were, overshadows you, is the head of a gigantic Indian buffalo, so sleek and life-like in appearance, with its huge horns, that you involuntarily shudder to think what a formidable opponent the savage monster must have proved in the flesh ere he became the trophy of that gallant sportsman, the late Hector Cameron.

Ascending the staircase, the walls of which are hung with a series of Colonel Crealock's spirited hunting sketches, you are ushered into the drawing-room, which is divided midway by a carved white wood archway of Moorish design. Large palms, tall arum lilies, and graceful ferns, are grouped here and there about the room; no sound is heard save the song of caged birds. The Oriental bowls and jars are filled with great double chrysanthemums of golden brown, and other winter flowers; but a light step approaches; the door softly opens, and the author enters: seeing her framed in the doorway, clad in the soft folds of a simply-made violet velvet tea-gown, the first glance conveys to the mind an immediate impression that she is in thorough harmony with her surroundings.

Mrs. Lovett Cameron is a fair, slight woman, a little below the middle height; her large blue eyes have a very thoughtful, gentle expression; her broad low brow is crowned with bright chestnut coloured hair. Her habitually serious look changes, however, when having settled you into a corner of the couch, with a cup of steaming coffee, she enters into friendly conversation. Meanwhile you cast furtive glances around the room. A bright fire blazes cheerfully on the blue and brown tiled hearth. The carved white mantelpiece, with side recesses, is covered with delicate specimens of old Dresden china, and surmounted by a broad shelf, on which stand five exquisite antique Japanese jars, the bleu poudrÉ and deep crimson being thrown into relief by the soft tints of the "buttercup" coloured wall paper.

Amongst the pictures which adorn the walls is a portrait, after Sir Godfrey Kneller, of Sir Edmund Verney, an ancestor of the family, bearing the inscription "Standard Bearer to Charles I., who lost his life in the Battle of Edghill." The original painting is at Liscombe, Buckinghamshire, a property which still belongs to the Lovett family. Further on is a lovely copy of the Madonna Caracci, in the Dresden Gallery. Several pieces of valuable old blue china, quaint bits of Oriental flat figures, together with a plate or two of old Dutch ware decorate the walls, and an ancient convex mirror of great antiquity. Two antique corner cupboards (Dutch) with flat glass doors disclose many little treasures of enamel, old Worcester and Nankin, which Mrs. Cameron says that she prizes as much from association as for their own intrinsic value. An Italian cabinet inlaid with ebony and ivory occupies one side of the wall, and, unlocking its doors, she takes out some priceless scraps of old lace of cobweb-looking fabric, which she inherited from a maternal ancestress, together with a few pieces of the Queen Anne silver which are scattered on the tiny marqueterie table yonder. Amongst these there is a richly-chased tankard, on which is the inscription, "Oration Prize adjudged to Verney Lovett, of Trinity College, Cambridge, in the year 1774." There is an amusing story told of another of Mrs. Cameron's ancestresses. She was a Huguenot, a Mademoiselle de Bosquet, and, at the time of the persecution of the French Protestants, when only a little girl, she was packed up in a basket, smuggled out of France and sent over to England to ensure her safety.

The long, dwarf bookcase on the right is filled with literary treasures, inherited from the "Oration Prize" winner. Mrs. Cameron takes out several, and mentions that they are valuable editions of "Montaigne," "Chesterfield's Letters," the "Tattler," the "Spectator," etc., but the gem of the collection, and one that she greatly values, is a complete set of the poems of Edmund Waller, dated 1729, in good preservation, each poem headed with engravings by Vertue, chiefly portraits of the Stuart family. The bookcase opposite contains several presentation copies from brother and sister writers. Amongst them you look in vain for the author's own works, but she says that they shall all be seen presently in her own study below, and as she leads the way thither, past the conservatory, you pause to admire the picturesque grouping of the flowers and palms, some so high that the cages of the feathered songsters are half concealed. Your hostess remarks that she "delights in flowers, and is always lucky with them."

Turning to the right, she opens the door of her cosy little writing-room. The dark red walls, with a frieze of large Japanese flowers, are hung with etchings, photographs, and pictures, all of which have their own story. Here is a complete series of Aitken's "First Point to Point Race"; there portraits of the "Prize Fox-terriers of England," presented to her by the late Sir John Reid. Also sundry winners of the Derby, and many a pet dog and horse. Mrs. Cameron points out her husband's favourite hunter, "Roscommon," and his wonderful pony, "Tommy Dod," who "jumped like a cat," and carried him for many seasons in Leicestershire, and who, with his master, was often mentioned with honour in Baily's Magazine. A few sketches of the Thames indicate her favourite resort for leisure hours, many summer days and autumn holidays being spent on the river, in quiet nooks and corners, where, under the able tuition of her barrister brother, Norman Pearson, late of Balliol, and coach of the "Kingston Eight," Mrs. Lovett Cameron has achieved considerable dexterity in sculling and canoeing.

Antlers and deers' heads, ranged high near the ceiling, testify further to the sporting proclivities of the family. Over a quaint little corner cupboard a big stuffed hawk looks down with an absurdly wise expression. A high, three-cornered, and somewhat ascetic-looking chair is pushed aside from a proportionately high and business-like writing table—a handsome old English piece of furniture, which is loaded with manuscript and books of reference, denoting the occupation in which Mrs. Cameron was probably engaged when summoned to receive you, and you hastily begin a word of apology; but she turns it aside and observes that she was "quite glad to be interrupted, as she had been working beyond her usual hour."

Over the table hangs a venerable canary, Ætat. fourteen, who has learnt to be mute in business hours. Opposite the window stands a large antique Chippendale bookcase with glass doors, filled with hooks of history, travel, biography, English poets, and old dramatists. One shelf is reserved for another purpose, and here can be read the names of fourteen three-volume novels, well known to the world, written by Mrs. Lovett Cameron. Her husband has had them all bound alike in Russian leather, and looks on them as his own especial property. This shelf is now nearly full, and Mrs. Cameron remarks laughingly that "by rights she ought to die when it is full, as there will be no room for any more in the cupboard." Of these novels, the first, "Juliet's Guardian," made its bow to the public in 1876, having previously appeared in the pages of Belgravia, "Jack's Secret" ran as a serial through the same magazine, having been applied for, when Belgravia changed hands, by the present owner "to bring him luck." Taking out one after another of these daintily-bound volumes—"Deceivers Ever," "Vera Nevill," "Pure Gold," "A North Country Maid," "A Dead Past," "In a Grass Country," "A Devout Lover," "This Wicked World," "Worth Winning," "The Cost of a Lie," "Neck or Nothing," and other short stories—you see that most of them have passed through several editions, and in "In a Grass Country," "ninth edition," proving the special popularity of that particular book, which chiefly made Mrs. Lovett Cameron's literary reputation. Her latest additions to these entertaining works of fiction are "A Lost Wife," "Weak Woman," and "A Daughter's Heart."

It is always deeply interesting to hear about the early days of such a well-known writer. Explaining to Mrs. Cameron that not only in Europe, but also in the Colonies where her books are as largely circulated, that she has many friends and admirers who will love to hear all about her first literary efforts, she kindly consents to gratify you, and says, that "to begin at the beginning," she was sent at the early age of six to Paris, to acquire the language; she was placed in the family of the late M. Nizard, an academician, and a man of some literary repute, who later on became a member of the Senate. She has a vivid recollection of the house—since demolished—surrounded by a large garden in the Rue de Conscelles, where her childish days were spent. Amongst such surroundings, it was natural that the girl should become imbued with a love of reading, which, though carefully guided, was stimulated to the utmost, and when, later on, after some further years at a school in England, she returned home, she found herself in constant disgrace, because she was always reading and hated needlework. As her mother and sister were enthusiastic in this feminine accomplishment, and were constantly engrossed in the embroidering of church altar-cloths and linen, they were inclined to look on books as an excuse for idleness.

It was at this time that the young girl-student secretly wrote several short stories, and, although very shy of these efforts, she one day confided to her elder sister that she "felt certain she could write a novel." With the honest candour of a family circle towards each other, she was promptly extinguished with the remark, "That is nonsense. If you had any talent for writing, it would have shown itself before this." Thus discouraged, she laid aside the idea, and never resumed it until after her marriage, when the talent which had lain dormant could no longer be hidden. The story of the launching of her first novel is most interesting, as showing the courage and perseverance of the young author.

She had no acquaintance with a single member of the literary profession—no interest with any editor or publisher; nevertheless, on the completion of "Juliet's Guardian," she took up, by chance, the nearest book at hand; reading therein the names of Chatto and Windus, she then and there packed up her MS., and without any introduction, but with many qualms, made her way to their office. She was courteously received, and informed that she might leave it, and after a brief period of anxious waiting, the good news came that it was accepted. Shortly after, it was brought out, and the young author's first step to fame was accomplished.

Rising to replace this volume, you inadvertently press against a panel in the lower cupboard, which falling open, dislodges a large and somewhat discoloured roll of newspapers, and hastening to gather them up with a murmured word of regret for the accident, Mrs. Cameron remarks with a laugh that they are copies of a paper, the City Advertiser, which she and her two brothers started, and actually kept going for six months, the three meeting once a week to carry it on. It was a source of endless amusement to them, until the scattering of the family caused it to die a natural death.

The easel yonder holds a large framed photograph of the head of an Apollo, discovered when digging under the streets of Athens; and opposite stands a portfolio full of sketches and maps, descriptive of the route taken by her brother-in-law, Commander Lovett Cameron, the well-known African traveller, who nearly seventeen years ago went on foot across Africa with a small party of friends, but, alas! came back alone. He was the only survivor of the intrepid band, the rest all succumbed to the perils of the expedition. He it was who surveyed the southern portion of Lake Tanganyika, proving it to be a lake, and discovered the river Lukuga, which is the outlet thereof. Pursuing his travels further, he also proved Lualaba and Congo to be one river, and later discovered Lake Kassali and the sources of the Zambesi.

But whilst following out the route on a well-worn map, and listening to these interesting details, youthful voices are heard outside, which recall the fact that it is the first day of the holidays, and a tap at the door is followed by the entrance of Mrs. Cameron's two fine, bright boys, accompanied by their father.

The elder lad, "Verney" is at Winchester, the "school for scholars," and he has already evinced a distinct talent for composition, combined with a fund of humour, which has found vent in one or two clever, though childish stories, which betoken the probability that he has inherited his mother's gift of writing, but the younger boy, "Hector," bravely tells you he "likes play better than lessons, and he means to go abroad and shoot elephants." As he is, however, only twelve years old his parents feel no immediate anxiety on that score.

Mrs. Lovett Cameron seldom writes after two o'clock. She uses a pen placed in a funny little stump of a broken mother-of-pearl holder, and, handing it to you, she says, "I have a superstition about it. Every one of my novels has been mainly written with it, and I often say that if I use another penholder, I write badly. I have told my husband to put it into my coffin."

She is a capital woman of business, and remarks that she "bought all her experience for herself."

Those who do not know Mrs. Cameron well, think that she is cold and proud. Truly, she does not wear her heart on her sleeve; but not to all is revealed the true nature of the woman. Do you go to consult her on a tiresome bit of business, to take a tale of deserving charity, to confide a personal grief? Though in the midst of writing a sentence, the busy pen is thrown aside, as she straightens the tangled web, opens her purse to the pitiful story, or, with tender sympathy, enters into the sorrow.

The good old "grandfather" clock in the corner is a very ancient and much-treasured relic; its hands, however, mark that it is time to go; but Mrs. Lovett Cameron asks you to "stay a moment." She runs lightly upstairs and returns with a bunch of the gold and brown chrysanthemums, which she puts into your hands; then, casting a last look at the fierce buffalo, you pass out into the quiet little square, and in less than five minutes find yourself again in the noisy region of cabs and omnibuses.