The morning of his going, I remember, broke fine and clear.  The sky was beautifully blue, like an inverted turquoise bowl.  The little railway station must have been startled half out of its wits by all the people flocking in.  Such a thing in all its history had never happened before.  Under the low grey roof trooped guards of honour sent by every nationality—­all for the sake of one man who was only a civilian, and nothing but a private individual.  There were this man’s own nationals in the central position—­a company of splendid Highlanders with pipers, and stretching away down the platform there were American marines, Italian sailors, Dutch marines and Japanese soldiers.  And, of course, there were Chinese, no less than three detachments of them, looking very well in their new khaki uniforms.  Two of the detachments had brought their bands, and the I.G.’s own band had come of its own accord to play “Auld Lang Syne.”

[Illustration:  FRONT VIEW OF SIR ROBERT HART’S HOUSE.

With his butler, Ah Fong, who served him for almost half a century.]

As the I.G. stepped from his sedan chair at the end of the platform his face wore an expression of bewilderment, but only for a moment.  Then he turned to the commanding officer, and saying “I am ready,” walked steadily down the lines of saluting troops while the bands all played “Home, Sweet Home.”  Just as quietly he said good-bye to the host of Chinese officials with whom he had been associated so long; then turned to the Europeans whom he had known so well, to all of whom he had done so many kindnesses, and none of whom could say “bon voyage” dry-eyed, while camera fiends “snapped” him as he shook hands and said last good-byes.  At last he stepped on board the train and slowly drew away from the crowd, bowing again and again in his modest way.

So far as his work was concerned he could go without regrets.  He left his career behind him with no frayed edges that could tangle.  He had fulfilled all his ambitions.  He had “bought back Kilmoriarty and got a title too,” as he promised his aunt he would while still a boy in his teens.  He had collected an almost unprecedented number of honours, been decorated no less than twenty-four times, eight, however, being promotions in the Orders.  But still that left him sixteen to wear, and of those sixteen, thirteen were Grand Crosses.  As a matter of fact he never wore any of them when he could help it, and never more than one at a time.  “I do not want to look like a Christmas tree,” he would say in joke.  This was his humility again.

He certainly was humble, and he looked so.  There was never the slightest pomp or pride about him.  “A small, insignificant Irishman,” so some one has described him.  Is he small?  I dare say he is, but one never notices it.  One notices only the long face still further lengthened by a beard, the domed forehead, the bright eyes, very inscrutable usually, very sympathetic when he chooses to make them so; and when he speaks, a soft voice, quiet and even-toned but often indistinct.  Not given to demonstrativeness, he appears the same under all conditions—­silent when depressed, silent too when cheerful; he may smile, but he will never laugh outright—­unless called upon in society to make a special effort to amuse somebody.  Then he does it, as he does all he sets out to do, well.