But I think that the two ways in which he most impressed himself were by his conversation, when we were all together, and by his tete-a-tete talks, if one happened to be his companion.  When we were all together he was humorous, ironical, frank.  He did not mind what was said to him, so long as it was courteously phrased; but I have heard him say:  “We must remember we are fencing—­we must not use bludgeons.”  Or:  “You must not talk as if you were scaring birds away—­we are all equal here.”  He was very unguarded himself in what he said, and always maintained that talkers ought to contribute their own impressions freely and easily.  He used to quote with much approval Dr. Johnson’s remark about his garrulous old school-fellow, Edwards.  Boswell said, when Edwards had gone, that he thought him a weak man.  “Why, yes, sir,” said Johnson.  “Here is a man who has passed through life without experiences; yet I would rather have him with me than a more sensible man who will not talk readily.  This man is always willing to say what he has to say.”  Father Payne used to add:  “The point is to talk; you must not consider your reputation; say whatever comes into your head, and when you have learnt to talk, you can begin to select.”  I have heard him say; “Go on, some one!  It is everybody’s business here to avoid a pause.  Don’t be sticky!  Pauses are for a tete-a-tete.”  Or, again, I have heard him say:  “You mustn’t examine witnesses here!  You should never ask more than three questions running.”  He did not by any means keep his own rules; but he would apologise sometimes for his shortcomings.  “I’m hopeless to-day.  I can’t attend, I can’t think of anything in particular.  I’m diluted, I’m weltering—­I’m coming down like a shower.”

The result of this certainly was that we most of us did learn to talk.  He liked to thrash a subject out, but he hated too protracted a discussion.  “Here, we’ve had enough of this.  It’s very important, but I’m getting bored.  I feel priggish.  Help, help!”

On the other hand, he was even more delightful in a tete-a-tete.  He would say profound and tender things, let his emotions escape him.  He had with me, and I expect with others, a sort of indulgent and paternal way with him.  He never forgot a confidence, and he used to listen delightedly to stories of one’s home circle.  “Tell me some stories about Aunt Jane,” he would say to me.  “There is something impotently fiery about that good lady that I like.  Tell me again what she said when she found cousin Frank in a smoking-cap reading Thomas-a-Kempis.”  He had a way of quoting one’s own stories which was subtly flattering, and he liked sidelights of a good-natured kind on the character of other members.  “Why won’t he say such things to me?” he used to say.  “He thinks I should respect him less, when really I should admire him more.  He won’t let me see when his box is empty!  I suspect him of reading Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations before he goes a walk with me!” Or he would say:  “In a general talk you must think about your companions; in a tete-a-tete you must only feel him.”