Sir George’s mother first set him thinking, and he had a recollection of learning the Lord’s Prayer from her.  Indeed, his earliest mental problem arose from the opening words, ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven.’

’I took the “which art in” to be all one word, and puzzled over its possible meaning.  The circumstance was a light to the obstacles that beset a child’s mind, and a lamp to parents in training that mind.  Never was there a mother more fitted than mine, for the glorious responsibilities of motherhood.  Very highly educated, she added Latin to her other accomplishments, in order that she might teach the language to me.  She had married a second time, and my step-father, a wise and large-hearted man, one of the best men I have ever known, also bestowed much care on my upbringing.’

As a little fellow he had lived a good deal in London with relations, a family of whom had a house near Hyde Park.  He could call up, from the farthest caverns of his memory, a Sunday forenoon on which he was carried off to church, because there was nobody at home, except the servants, to look after him.

‘What West End church it may have been I cannot tell,’ Sir George said, ’but I imagine the one the household usually attended.  The other detail that a fire burned in our pew, did impress itself definitely upon my mind.  I was at least big enough to lift a poker, and what must I do but seize that instrument, and set to scraping the fire, to the confusion of those with me.  Perhaps the idea of a fire in a church pew may be deemed curious at this date, so much later.  But why not?  It was really a great boon to those worshippers whom delicacy of health might otherwise have kept at home.  For, of course, there was then no better means of warming a church.

’The house of another London relative was in Lombard Street, looking on to Old Change Alley, and there, likewise, I was a pet.  A store of books filled one of the rooms, and it was my delight, having already learned to read, to pick out diverting volumes.  There were accounts of the travels of Captain Cook and other explorers, and these quite caught my fancy.  I felt I should like to travel, when I grew up, and this glimmering idea was advanced by the contemplation of a fruit stall that did business in Change Alley.  I marvelled from whence came the oranges and bananas, and I whispered to myself, “I’ll go where they grow.”

Some afternoon, Sir George journeyed down to Lombard Street, in order to revisit his ancient shrine.  He returned triumphant with the news, ’Would you believe it?  I have found many of those old books just where they were, so very long ago.  Dear me! the discovery almost took my breath away, and a sort of lump was in my throat.’  And the orange stall?  Aye, even it lingered; at least there was still a stall in Change Alley.  London had not rolled over it.

The romance of war descended to Sir George Grey on his mother’s side, as well as from his father.  She was daughter to a military officer, whose exploit at the siege of Gibraltar she recited to her boy.  It was that of a derring-do soldier.