I went to the House of Lords to hear the great man’s answer to all this hubbub. Never shall I forget the air of dejection, the hangdog look, with which he entered the House. His head was bent, his gait uncertain, and he sat down wearily beside the Duke of Richmond. When the clerk of the Parliaments called upon him he rose slowly and proceeded to explain the motives which had led him to the selection of Mr. Pigott. Then came the personal note. “My Lords, it has been said in an assembly almost as classical as that which I am addressing, that this appointment was a job—that the father of Mr. Pigott was the parson of my parish, that I had relations of long and intimate friendship with him, that he busied himself in county elections, and that in my earlier contests in the county with which I am connected I was indebted to his exertions. My Lords, this is really a romance.” Here his face began to brighten. “Thirty years ago there was a vicar of my parish of the name of Pigott, and he certainly was father to this gentleman. He did not owe his preferment to me, nor was he ever under any obligation to me. Shortly after I succeeded to the property Mr. Pigott gave up his living and retired to a distant county. I have never had any relations with him. With regard to our intimate friendship and his electioneering assistance, all I know of his interference in county elections is”—here he drew himself up to his full height and looked round the House with his hands in his favourite attitude, one on each hip with the thumbs turned outwards—“is that before he departed from the County of Buckingham he registered his vote against me.” The effect was electric; the House of Lords for once was galvanized into something like life, and as he sat down radiant and triumphant amid the cheers and laughter of the good peers, I felt that I never had seen, and never again should see, so fine a piece of acting. The Lord Beaconsfield who walked out of the House that evening with a firm step was twenty years younger than the poor old man, borne down with care, and the weight of years who had shuffled into it so feebly an hour earlier. The House of Commons apologized. Is this unique? In June, 1879, London was stirred by the news of the death of the Prince Imperial in the Zulu war. That afternoon Sir Coutts and Lady Lindsay had invited a few people to see the pictures at the Grosvenor Gallery. As I was going away I met Lord Beaconsfield on the stairs. He stopped me. “This is terrible news,” he said. “Yes,” I answered, “and I am afraid that the French will accuse our people of having deserted him and left him to his fate.” “I am not so sure that they will be wrong,” he said, and then after a pause, he added, “Well! my conscience is clear. I did all that I could to stop his going. But what can you do when you have to deal with two obstinate women?” With that he went on up the stairs, leaving me under the impression that he wished what he had said to be repeated.