In the Session of 1890, Mr. Gladstone rented a house in St. James's
Square, a big, roomy, gloomy mansion, built when George I. was King. On
the pillars of the porch stand in admirable preservation two of the
wrought iron extinguishers, in which in those days the link-boys used to
thrust their torches when they had brought master or mistress home, or
convoyed a dinner guest. Inside hideous light-absorbing flock
wall-papers prevailed. One gained an idea, opportunity rare in these
days, of the murkiness amid which our grandfathers dwelt.
Dining there one night, I found the host made up for all household
shortcomings. He talked with unbroken flow of spirits, always having
more to say on any subject that turned up, and saying it better, than
any expert present. His memory was as amazing as his opportunities of
acquiring knowledge had been unique.
[Illustration: AT A FOUR-MILE-AN-HOUR PACE.]