he usually succeeded in rendering harmless.  Not infrequently Page’s fellow guests at the dinner table would think the American attitude toward Germany a not inappropriate topic for small talk.  “Mr. Page,” remarked an exaltedly titled lady in a conversational pause, “when is your country going to get into the war?” The more discreet members of the company gasped, but Page was not disturbed.  “Please give us at least ninety days,” he answered, and an exceedingly disagreeable situation was thus relieved by general laughter.

On another occasion his repudiation of this flippant spirit took a more solemn and even more effective form.  The time was a few days before the United States had declared war.  Bernstorff had been dismissed; events were rapidly rushing toward the great climax; yet the behaviour of the Washington Administration was still inspiring much caustic criticism.  The Pages were present at one of the few dinners which they attended in the course of this crisis; certain smart and tactless guests did not seem to regard their presence as a bar to many gibes against the American policy.  Page sat through it all impassive, never betraying the slightest resentment.

Presently the ladies withdrew.  Page found himself sitting next to Mr. Harold Nicolson, an important official in the Foreign Office.  It so happened that Mr. Nicolson and Page were the only two members of the company who were the possessors of a great secret which made ineffably silly all the chatter that had taken place during the dinner; this was that the United States had decided on war against Germany and would issue the declaration in a few days.

“Well, Mr. Nicolson,” said Page, “I think that you and I will drink a glass of wine together.”

The two men quietly lifted their glasses and drank the silent toast.  Neither made the slightest reference to the forthcoming event.  Perhaps the other men present were a little mystified, but in a few days they understood what it had meant, and also learned how effectively they had been rebuked.

“Is it any wonder,” says Mr. Nicolson, telling this story, “that I think that Mr. Page is perhaps the greatest gentleman I have ever known?  He has only one possible competitor for this distinction—­and that is Arthur Balfour.”

The English newspapers took delight in printing Page’s aphorisms, and several anecdotes that came from America afforded them especial joy.  One went back to the days when the Ambassador was editor of the Atlantic Monthly.  A woman contributor had sent him a story; like most literary novices she believed that editors usually rejected the manuscripts of unknown writers without reading them.  She therefore set a trap for Page by pasting together certain sheets.  The manuscript came back promptly, and, as the prospective contributor had hoped, these sheets had not been disturbed.  These particular sections had certainly not been read.  The angry author triumphantly wrote to Page, explaining