My story begins with an incident that is bound to happen some time in any household that boasts-or perhaps deplores-a high-spirited girl of twenty-three in it. It begins with "a row" about a young man. My story begins, too, where the first woman's story began-in a garden. It was the back garden of our red-roofed villa in that suburban street, Laburnum Grove, Putney, S.W. Now all those eighty-five neat gardens up and down the leafy road are one exactly...