Not infrequently Mr. Lloyd George, after delivering a speech in English, would, during the period of its interpretation into French, cross the hearthrug to the President to reinforce his case by some ad hominem argument in private conversation, or to sound the ground for a compromise,—­and this would sometimes be the signal for a general upheaval and disorder.  The President’s advisers would press round him, a moment later the British experts would dribble across to learn the result or see that all was well, and next the French would be there, a little suspicious lest the others were arranging something behind them, until all the room were on their feet and conversation was general in both languages.  My last and most vivid impression is of such a scene—­the President and the Prime Minister as the center of a surging mob and a babel of sound, a welter of eager, impromptu compromises and counter-compromises, all sound and fury signifying nothing, on what was an unreal question anyhow, the great issues of the morning’s meeting forgotten and neglected; and Clemenceau silent and aloof on the outskirts—­for nothing which touched the security of France was forward—­throned, in his gray gloves, on the brocade chair, dry in soul and empty of hope, very old and tired, but surveying the scene with a cynical and almost impish air; and when at last silence was restored and the company had returned to their places, it was to discover that he had disappeared.

He felt about France what Pericles felt of Athens—­unique value in her, nothing else mattering; but his theory of politics was Bismarck’s.  He had one illusion—­France; and one disillusion—­mankind, including Frenchmen, and his colleagues not least.  His principles for the peace can be expressed simply.  In the first place, he was a foremost believer in the view of German psychology that the German understands and can understand nothing but intimidation, that he is without generosity or remorse in negotiation, that there is no advantage be will not take of you, and no extent to which he will not demean himself for profit, that he is without honor, pride, or mercy.  Therefore you must never negotiate with a German or conciliate him; you must dictate to him.  On no other terms will he respect you, or will you prevent him from cheating you.  But it is doubtful how far he thought these characteristics peculiar to Germany, or whether his candid view of some other nations was fundamentally different.  His philosophy had, therefore, no place for “sentimentality” in international relations.  Nations are real things, of whom you love one and feel for the rest indifference—­or hatred.  The glory of the nation you love is a desirable end,—­but generally to be obtained at your neighbor’s expense.  The politics of power are inevitable, and there is nothing very new to learn about this war or the end it was fought for; England had destroyed, as in each preceding century, a trade rival; a mighty chapter had been closed in