Gertrude, a statuesque dark-eyed and celebrated beauty, met Lord Colin Campbell in October 1880 while visiting friends in Scotland, and they had become engaged within days.

Proceedings included a visit by the jury to the Campbells' London home to verify the butler's testimony about witnessing through a keyhole Lady Colin's meetings with other men.

[6] The Blood parents had enjoyed a quiet, respectable lifestyle which was thrown into turmoil by the lengthy and scandalous divorce trial of their daughter with its prurient revelations.

Her other talents included painting, riding, cycling, swimming, a fine singing voice, an excellent command of French and Italian (which she had spoken long before being introduced to English),[8] a bit of German, Spanish and Arabic,[9] and was recognised as an expert fencer.

"[10] Although ostracised by the very society of which she had longed to be part – they had closed ranks when it became apparent that a member of their set was being publicly challenged – her vivaciousness, liberal outlook, creativity and acerbic wit made her a welcome addition to literary and artistic circles.

[13] In her column of 20 October 1897 in The World, she wrote a piece entitled Modern Gladiators,[14] under the name "Véra Tsaritsyn", about attending the screening of a silent film at the Aquarium in London.

Shaw noted in his diary on 17 October 1889, that he had written to Edmund Yates asking that he give the position of art critic at The World to Lady Colin Campbell.

Shaw's easily readable art and music reviews appeared regularly in The World and The Star, but as his time was taken up in other ways, he would gladly resign from what he regarded as a bore.

"[15] Shaw interviewed her in 1893 and wrote: "Imagine a lady with a lightning wit, a merciless sense of humour, a skill in journalism surpassing that of any interviewer, a humiliatingly obvious power of reckoning you up at a glance, and probably not thinking much of you, a superb bearing that brings out all the abjectness in your nature, and a beauty the mere fame of which makes you fall into an attitude of amateurishly gallant homage that fulfils the measure of your sneaking confusion.