The tiger skin was real. Readers who like to know whether or not a novel is "true" will be glad to check up on this historic item by turning to page 127 of Mrs. Glyn's autobiography [Romantic Adventure], in which she Tells All. They may, however, be a trifle disappointed by the innocent comedy of the facts. During the summer of 1902 Mr. and Mrs. Clayton Glyn made a brief sojourn in Lucerne. "The setting was ideally romantic," but Mr. Glyn apparently took scenery for granted, and laughed at his charming young wife's enthusiasm. One day it rained, and the atmospheric pressure caused a slight domestic disharmony—nothing serious. There was a fur shop adjoining the hotel, with a magnificent tiger skin on display. Mrs. Glyn explains: "I had always longed to have one, but Clayton would never give me this present, as he said I was too like the creature, anyway." But at the moment she had extra money in her pocket, royalties from her first novel, The Visits of Elizabeth. She went down to the shop unbeknownst to her husband, paid "a fabulous sum" for the trophy, and had it sent up to her sitting room. When it arrived she "stretched it out on the floor and lay on it and caressed its fur, looking, I imagine, much as my caricaturists have portrayed me ever since."

Here one would prefer to insert a few asterisks: but they might be misunderstood. For Mr. Glyn only laughed so heartily that the romantic lady never again reclined on that or any other tiger skin, though she has since had seven more presented to her by respectful admirers.

And when the Glyns continued their journey, "Clayton was really furious" because the tiger skin necessitated a special trunk. "He said it was bad enough to have to travel with a woman who had thirty-seven new dresses, a train of antique admirers, and a maid who fell out of bed, but to have a huge tiger-skin as well was more than an Englishman could stand."

Perhaps it would be well to explain further that the antique admirers and the gravitational maid were as innocent as the tiger skin. None of Mrs. Glyn's romantic adventures contravened the proprieties. A most disarming naivete is the dominant trait of her character, and of her book. It would be easy to pick out a string of harmless absurdities from her candid narrative, but not quite fair. Sometimes the author herself is aware of the humor of her memories, as in the case of the tiger skin: sometimes she is almost incredibly serious, as when she takes pride in her contribution to international good will through the medium of the films. Because while in Hollywood she succeeded in revolutionizing the movies by banishing aspidistras from the "sets" intended to represent ducal English country house interiors. Dukes do not have aspidistras in their drawing rooms. Any one who thinks so has been misinformed.

But Mrs. Glyn's memoirs are not wholly concerned with such high matters. And when she is simply recalling the aspect of the vanished social order in which she held an authentic position, she is agreeably informative, even in her point of view, which remains essentially unchanged and is therefore representative of the pleasant, ornamental, ephemeral privileged class of the prewar world. It was a society whose members had nothing to do but amuse themselves, and plenty of money to supply the accessories. Discretion was the rule of conduct: birth, beauty, fame and of course wealth were the passports.

Mrs. Glyn saw it with the advantage of an alien background, and the right of inheritance. Her mother, Canadian born but of aristocratic connections, married a young Scottish engineer of the Sutherland family, apparently a man of unusual ability and charm. His profession took him all over the world, so that his daughters were born in Jersey. He died in South America: his beautiful young widow returned to her parents in Canada for a time. Later, to give her two girls the environment which she felt to be their due, she married again. The second husband was elderly, eccentric, selfish and domineering, but he had a comfortable income—he lost it later—and the right background. He took his wife and step-daughters back to Europe. Mrs. Glyn therefore spent the latter part of her childhood in Scotland, England, France and Jersey, and made her debut in the most exclusive social circles, at the time when Lily Langtry was the reigning beauty.

As a girl, Mrs. Glyn's red hair and green eyes were thought to be a disadvantage; but she got along just the same. She was determined to marry for love, and rejected even a duke, though "in those days to become a duchess meant a great deal." One would hardly consider it negligible now. But the duke "was absorbingly interested in the details of ecclesiastical apparel," a theme from which the lady was unable to extract a thrill. Perhaps he picked the wrong sister—Mrs. Glyn's sister Lucy is better known as "Lucille," Lady Duff Gordon. Anyhow, Miss Elinor Sutherland remained heart-free until she was twenty-seven, when Mr. Clayton Glyn, a jolly and highly eligible gentleman of a sporting temper—"a splendid shot, a great traveler and bon viveur"—heard an amusing story of how four of her suitors, after a hunt ball, had jumped into the lake at Hillersden in evening clothes at her behest. Mr. Glyn decided that a girl who could induce four solid, responsible Englishmen to jump into a lake at 3 o'clock of a winter morning "must be worth looking at." And after taking a good look, he married her out of hand.

Mrs. Glyn as a bride was presented at court: a photograph shows her in stately plumes and velvet. She had a country house, and the entree to the smartest and most amusing set in England. She traveled extensively, and in luxury, with her husband, who was good natured and lavishly generous. He was much diverted by the artless attitudes of his better half, and too sensible to be jealous when there was no real cause.

His romantic wife didn't know that he was spending the principal of his estate; but when it was all gone, she had no reproaches for him. They had had a good time, and a happy marriage; and she could earn money herself. She did so, took care of her mother, her husband in his last years, when he was ill, and her two pretty daughters. She made and lost a fortune on her own account as a novelist and scenario writer; she has been all over the world, met everybody of note, enjoyed everything, and has no regrets nor fears. Her novels, one gleans, are the imaginative excursions of an intrinsically good woman. She takes them quite sericusly as literature, and cannot understand the slighting tone of the critical fraternity, since she has never done them any harm. She forgives them—and extraordinarily, one can believe that she really does forgive them, an example of magnanimity unparalleled in literature. And toward the conclusion of her memoirs she remarks that "the news from Pekin sounds rather interesting. Yes, I think it must be Pekin next."

The final chapter, "a vision of things to come," reveals a kindly, optimistic nature and a tendency to the nonsequitur, as, for instance, in the belief that "aviation which will soon enable the people of all countries to visit each other," will "develop the spirit of mutual understanding which will eventually bring about the universal reign of peace." This, perhaps, is why shipments of planes have to be rushed.