The writer of these chapters has always felt some inward affinity to the character of Lord St. Jerome in Lothair, of whom it is recorded that he loved conversation, though he never conversed.  “There must be an audience,” he would say, “and I am the audience.”  In my capacity of audience I assign a high place to the agreeableness of Lord Rosebery’s conversation.  To begin with, he has a delightful voice.  It is low, but perfectly distinct, rich and sympathetic in quality, and singularly refined in accent.  It is exactly the sort of voice which bespeaks the goodwill of the hearer and recommends what it utters.  In a former chapter we agreed that the chief requisite of good conversation is to have something to say which is worth saying, and here Lord Rosebery is excellently equipped.  Last week the newspapers announced with a flourish of rhetorical trumpets that he had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday.[21] Some of the trumpeters, with a laudable intention to be civil, cried, “Is it possible that he can be so old?” Others, with subtler art, professed themselves unable to believe that he was so young.  Each compliment contained its element of truth.  In appearance, air, and tastes Lord Rosebery is still young.  In experience, knowledge, and conduct he is already old.  He has had a vivid and a varied experience.  He is equally at home on Epsom Downs and in the House of Lords.  His life has been full of action, incident, and interest.  He has not only collected books, but has read them; and has found time, even amid the engrossing demands of the London County Council, the Turf, and the Foreign Office, not only for study, but—­what is much more remarkable—­for thought.

So far, then, as substance goes, his conversation is (to use Mr. Gladstone’s quaint phrase) “as full of infinitely varied matter as an egg is full of meat;” and in its accidents and ornaments it complies exactly with the conditions laid down in a former chapter—­a manner which knows how to be easy and free without being free-and-easy; habitual deference to the tastes and prejudices of other people; a courteous desire to be, or at least to seem, interested in their concerns; and a recollection that even the most patient hearers (among whom the present writer reckons himself) may sometimes wish to be speakers.  To these gifts he adds a keen sense of humour, a habit of close observation, and a sub-acid vein of sarcasm which resembles the dash of Tarragon in a successful salad.  In a word, Lord Rosebery is one of the most agreeable talkers of the day; and even if it is true that il s’ecoute quand il parle, his friends may reply that it would be strange indeed if one could help listening to what is always so agreeable and often so brilliant.