The League of Nations!—­A year ago how many of us had given any serious thought to what was then a phrase, a dream, on which in the dark days of last spring it seemed a mere waste of time to dwell?  And yet, week by week, since the New Year began, the dream has been slowly taking to itself body and form.

On the very day (January 25th) when the League of Nations resolution was passed at the Paris Conference, I happened to spend an interesting hour in President Wilson’s company, at the Villa Murat.  Mrs. Wilson, whose gentle kindness and courtesy were very widely appreciated in Paris, had asked me to come in at six o’clock, and await the President’s return from the Conference.  I found her with five or six visitors round her, members of the Murat family, come to pay a visit to the illustrious guest to whom they had lent their house—­the Princesse Murat, talking fluent English, her son in uniform, her widowed daughter and two delicious little children.  In little more than five minutes, the President came in, and the beautiful room made a rich setting for an interesting scene.  He entered, radiant, and with his first words, standing in our midst, told us that the Conference had just passed the League of Nations resolution.  The two tiny children approached him, the little girl curtseyed to him, the little boy kissed his hand; and then they vanished, to remember, perhaps, fifty years hence, the dim figure of a tall and smiling man, whom they saw on a day marked in history.

The President took his seat as the centre of our small circle.  I am not going to betray the confidence of what was a private visit, but general impressions are not, I think, forbidden.  I still seem to see the Princesse Murat opposite me, in black, her fingers playing with her pearls as she talked; the French officer with folded arms beside her; next to him the young widowed lady, whose name I did not catch, then Mrs. Wilson, with the intelligent face of her secretary, Miss Benham, in the background, and between myself and Princesse Murat, the easy, attractive presence of the man whom this old Europe, with one accord, is now discussing, criticising, blaming or applauding.  The President talked with perfect simplicity and great apparent frankness.  There is a curious mingling in his face, it seemed to me, of something formidable, at times almost threatening, with charm and sweetness.  You are in the presence of something held in leash; that something is clearly a will of remarkable quality and power.  You are also in the presence of something else, not less strongly controlled, a consciousness of success, which is in itself a promise of further success.  The manner has in it nothing of the dictator, and nothing of the pedant; but in the President’s instinctive and accomplished choice of words and phrases, something reminded me of the talk of George Eliot as I heard it fifty years ago; of the account also given me quite recently by an old friend and classmate of the President, describing the remarkable pains taken with him as a boy, by his father, to give him an unfailing command of correct and musical English.