’Dean Stanley wanted to show me everything, to explain the whole place.  He told me of a theory of his that the Commons, while sitting there in the circular room, probably had no parties, so called.  They were grouped in a ring, not confronting each other sharply, antagonistically, and everything went on with quietness.  But when they moved across to St. Stephen’s, they found themselves set opposite-wise, which fact may have tended to create the party system.  That was the idea put to me by the Dean, though how far he applied it, I do not recollect.

’Anyhow, he was anxious that I should study the Chapter House under him, but it was too late to do it that evening.  “Never mind,” he said, “let us wait until things are more complete and we shall go in together.”  “Oh,” I answered, “I really need not trouble you.  I can look in myself one afternoon.”  “No, no,” he insisted, with much good nature, “I want to be your guide.  You must promise that you will not go there without me.”  “Very well, then,” I assured him, “I shall wait until you take me.”

’The Dean and myself did not, as it happened, meet again at that period, nor were we, by the decree of Providence, ever to meet.  Thus, I shall not see the earliest home of the House of Commons, as it has been restored, for I promised.’

There swam in Sir George’s recollection, a little story touching the evolution of the body politic, during his own time.  It was like Maui of Maori legend, and Arthur ‘by wild Dundagil on the Cornish sea,’ in that he scarce knew whence it came.  He inclined to link it, a whiff of airy gossip, with two of the most strenous middle Victorians, but would hold no names certain.

‘At all events,’ he said, ’the Cabinet was formerly a smaller body than it now is, and less formal in its proceedings.  The members would drop in, with the newspapers in their hands, and take a chair, here or there, as the case might be.  A quite large Cabinet being created, the Prime Minister suggested, “Gentlemen, had we not better sit round the table?” The suggestion met with approval, and the Premier made to take his place at the head of the table.  Thereupon, a colleague caught up a chair, put it beside that of the Premier, and sat down with the remark, “There is no such thing as a President of the Cabinet."’

For a good while, Sir George Grey spoke of himself as being in England, only to bid England farewell.  Some fine morning he would pack his trunks, and sail south to those who knew him best.  Every step in New Zealand was a greeting; in London a mile was bare.  Once he did pack his trunks, but the fine morning never arrived.

When rallied about that, Sir George defended himself, ’I suppose I want to see what I can do, as one of your most eminent statesmen did, in his youth.  He went to a small island, then connected with the family property, and studied laboriously for a whole winter.  He desired to establish what was in him, what exertion he was likely to be equal to, in the world’s affairs.  Then, lest trouble should ever befall him, he, another time, went into lodgings to test how little it was really possible to live upon.  I don’t recall at what figure the experiment worked out, but it was a ridiculously small one.’