And that, added Page, involved a director—­some one man who could take charge of the whole enterprise.  Who should it be?

Then Page turned quickly to the young American.

“Hoover, you’re It!”

Mr. Hoover made no reply; he neither accepted nor rejected the proposal.  He merely glanced at the clock, then got up and silently left the room.  In a few minutes he returned and entered again into the discussion.

“Hoover, why did you get up and leave us so abruptly?” asked Page, a little puzzled over this behaviour.

“I saw by the clock,” came the answer—­and it was a story that Page was fond of telling, as illustrating the rapidity with which Mr. Hoover worked—­“that there was an hour left before the Exchange closed in New York.  So I went out and cabled, buying several millions of bushels of wheat—­for the Belgians, of course.”

* * * * *

For what is usually known as “society” Page had little inclination.  Yet for social intercourse on a more genuine plane he had real gifts.  Had he enjoyed better health, week ends in the country would have afforded him welcome entertainment.  He also liked dinner parties but indulged in them very moderately.  He was a member of many London clubs but he seldom visited any of them.  There were a number of organizations, however, which he regularly attended.  The Society of Dilettanti, a company of distinguished men interested in promoting the arts and improving the public taste, which has been continuously in existence since 1736, enrolling in each generation the greatest painters and writers of the time, elected Page to membership.  He greatly enjoyed its dinners in the Banquet Hall of the Grafton Gallery.  “Last night,” he writes, describing his initial appearance, “I attended my first Dilettanti dinner and was inducted, much as a new Peer is inducted into the House of Lords.  Lord Mersey in the chair—­in a red robe.  These gay old dogs have had a fine time of it for nearly 200 years—­good wine, high food, fine satisfaction.  The oldest dining society in the Kingdom.  The blue blood old Briton has the art of enjoying himself reduced to a very fine point indeed.”  Another gathering whose meetings he seldom missed was that of the Kinsmen, an informal club of literary men who met occasionally for food and converse in the Trocadero Restaurant.  Here Page would meet such congenial souls as Sir James Barrie and Sir Arthur Pinero, all of whom retain lively memories of Page at these gatherings.  “He was one of the most lovable characters I have ever had the good fortune to encounter,” says Sir Arthur Pinero, recalling these occasions.  “In what special quality or qualities lay the secret of his charm and influence?  Surely in his simplicity and transparent honesty, and in the possession of a disposition which, without the smallest loss of dignity, was responsive and affectionate.  Distinguished American Ambassadors will come and go, and will in their turn win esteem and admiration.  But none, I venture to say, will efface the recollection of Walter Page from the minds of those who were privileged to gain his friendship.”