"I think I am right," said the Royal Hostess, to {79} one of the latter, smiling graciously, "you are the successor of your predecessor?" He bowed very deeply, and seemed quite pleased with that platitude. I was somewhat taken aback and rather amused, but when the reception was over, a lady-in-waiting said to me: "Is not Her Highness admirably clever and gracious? How well she talks!" Court people are sometimes very easily pleased. I did not commit myself to much admiration! Sir Henry was greatly amused at the story. The last time I saw Sir Henry and had a long talk with him, was when he dined with me after his return from France. He came to meet the Russian Ambassador on the 23rd of January. "Do you know," I said, "people assure me that you are going to the House of Lords. I am rather surprised to hear it," I added frankly. But he simply ridiculed the idea of such a step. "You are quite right in being sceptical," he said. "I love my work, and I am not going to lay it down." That was the last time he dined out. He made a further brief appearance in the House of Commons, but it speedily became evident that his days were numbered. Still, he clung to the hope that he would regain strength. His colleagues, Mr. Asquith in particular, did everything a man could to ease his burden. Doctors declared that dropsy had set in as the result of heart weakness. But his courage was unabated, and his faith undimmed. My impression is that his wife's death undoubtedly accelerated his own end. Strange reports have been spread about his last days. People who were allowed to watch {80} around his bed heard the dying man speak from time to time, as of old, to the life-long companion of all his joys and sorrows, his beloved wife, as if she were present before him, and that he would soon rejoin her in the land of another life. Tennyson had the same experience with his son Lionel. If these visions are actually granted, would it not be a great consolation and a reward for deep affection? In those days I had many friends who possessed very little in common with each other. Carlyle and Froude would sometimes call on me, but generally when I was likely to be alone. To me Carlyle showed only the lovable and affectionate side of his nature. He was a dear old man, and I loved nothing better than to see opposite me his rugged old face, and hear his broad Scots accent. When the publication in book form of my articles was under discussion, he said, "You must publish all your articles." "But who will write a preface?" I enquired. "Will you do so?" The dear old man shook his head dolefully, and, looking at his trembling hand, said: "I could not, I am too old, but here is a young man"--and he looked at Froude who was with him. "He can do it."