It was a very small party at Lady Galway's, the only other guest being Sir Frederick Pollock; but the talk was certainly as good as any I had ever listened to. When Lady Galway left the room, I reminded our host of the condition with regard to cigars, for Payn, I saw, was already impatient. Lord Houghton suggested a cigarette, which would by no means have met the views of Payn. Happily I had my cigar-case with me, and this part of the dinner treaty was carried out in its entirety. I still remember the stories of that delightful evening. They were many and striking. Both Payn and Lord Houghton were at their best, and Sir Frederick Pollock, when the opportunity occurred, gave us pleasant recollections of the past. I was only too glad to be a listener. We sat long over our cigars, and it was not until the evening was far advanced that we rejoined Lady Galway. "Now," said she, when we appeared in the drawing-room, "you have been laughing ever since I left you, but there were three distinct bursts of laughter that were louder than any others, and I insist upon being told the stories which you seemed to enjoy so much." We looked at each other in some dismay, knowing full well the difficulty of re-warming cold dishes so as to make them appetising. But Lord Houghton came to the rescue. "My dear." he said, "it is quite impossible that you should be told those stories. They were not stories for ladies." The recording angel, I am sure, blotted out our host's departure from the truth for the sake of the motive which led him to spare Payn the burden of repeating his stories. I have dwelt upon this dinner because, though I little knew it then, it was my last meeting with my dear and generous friend. Curiously enough, Lord Houghton's last words to me when I left him at night had reference to a lady with whom we both had a slight acquaintance. When I next saw that lady, the open grave in which Lord Houghton's coffin had just been placed yawned between us. Of that memorable dinner party in December, 1884, I, alas! am the only survivor. I corresponded with Houghton during the following spring and summer, but was unable to meet him on any of the occasions on which he asked me to do so, and whilst the summer was still at its height he died at Vichy. Like many another man, I felt that in him I had lost almost the best of my friends.