ABSTRACT
Cynthia Asquith I have such a vivid visual memory of Thomas Hardy. I see him on the threshold of the cottage in which he had been born. He is anxiously watching his friend, J.M. Barrie, climb a rickety ladder to get in through a window and open the locked door of the cottage from the inside, when Barrie was sixty-one years old. This incident was in May, 1921. I was then Barrie’s secretary, and had the good fortune to go with him to stay with Hardy.
