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Disraeli, the Earl and Countess of Clarendon, Prince and Princess Poniatowsky: Disraeli, writing to his sister, mentioned 'a fine dinner, well cooked, and gorgeous service'. Mrs Lewis was hostess to many notabilities of the London scene, and there is much testamentary evidence of her capability and graciousness. Many contempories differ over certain other traits, but all agree that she was a perfect wife, always ready to aid and further the advantages her husband already possessed. Towards the end of 1837, Wyndham's health began to fail and in March of the next year he died at Grosvenor Gate. Mary Anne was with him to the end. By his will, she was entitled to unconditional interest in all of his real and personal estates, being joint executor with a brother, Rev. William Price Lewis who, on her death became, with his heirs, sole owner. But Greenmeadow, now that Wyndham was dead, did not prove so attractive to Mary Anne. During her short widowhood, she spent very little time in the neighbourhood, preferring the amenities offered by her Grosvenor Gate residence, and it was here that she finally made her permanent London home. Although tradition associates the name Disraeli with Greenmeadow, accounting him to be a constant visitor whilst paying court to the widow, this is not true, for he did not visit Cardiff until much later, when he stayed at the Cardiff Arms Hotel. There he remarked that it was his first visit to the town, and that he had never seen Greenmeadow After 1838, Mary Anne's only visits there were of a business nature, and it is unlikely that they included social activities of any kind. Within two years of Wyndham's death, she had married again, and her connection with Greenmeadow was more or less at an end. Her marriage to Wyndham Lewis had lasted for twenty-three years, but now, it was over. Her life as 'Mrs Lewis of Greenmeadow' was at an end. ISLAND OCTOBER While still from green to brown the leaves are falling, And autumn lights the bogland on the hill, Calling the beasts home echoes, In the still intensely silent silence. And the chill Taste of the burnwater cools the mind. Into a thousand streams the leaves are falling. lain Forbes White