Among the Souls, Milly Sutherland [Footnote:  The Dowager Duchess of Sutherland.], Lady Windsor [Footnote:  The present Countess of Plymouth.] and Lady Granby [Footnote:  The present Duchess of Rutland.] were the women whose looks I admired most.  Lady Brownlow [Footnote:  Countess Brownlow, who died a few years ago.], mentioned in verse eleven, was Lady Pembroke’s handsome sister and a famous Victorian beauty.  Lady Granby—­the Violet of verse nine, Gladys Ripon [Footnote:  My friend Lady de Grey.] and Lady Windsor (alluded to as Lady Gay in verse twenty-eight), were all women of arresting appearance:  Lady Brownlow, a Roman coin; Violet Rutland, a Burne-Jones Medusa; Gladys Ripon, a court lady; Gay Windsor, an Italian Primitive and Milly Sutherland, a Scotch ballad.  Betty Montgomery was a brilliant girl and the only unmarried woman, except Mrs. Lyttelton, among us.  She was the daughter of Sir Henry Ponsonby, Queen Victoria’s famous private secretary, and one of the strongest Liberals I ever met.  Her sister Maggie, though socially uncouth, had a touch of her father’s genius; she said of a court prelate to me one day at Windsor Castle: 

“There goes God’s butler!”

It was through Betty and Maggie Ponsonby that I first met my beloved friend, Lady Desborough.  Though not as good-looking as the beauties I have catalogued, nor more intellectual than Lady Horner or Lady Wemyss, Lady Desborough was the cleverest of us.  Her flavour was more delicate, her social sensibility finer; and she added to chronic presence of mind undisguised effrontery.  I do not suppose she was ever unconscious in her life, but she had no self-pity and no egotism.  She was not an artist in any way:  music, singing, flowers, painting and colour left her cold.  She was not a game-player nor was she sporting and she never invested in parlour tricks; yet she created more fun for other people than anybody.  She was a woman of genius, who, if subtly and accurately described, either in her mode of life, her charm, wits or character, would have made the fortune of any novelist.  To an outsider she might—­like all over-agreeable femmes du monde—­give an impression of light metal, but this would be misleading.  Etty Desborough was fundamentally sound, and the truest friend that ever lived.  Possessed of social and moral sang-froid of a high order, she was too elegant to fall into the trap of the candid friend, but nevertheless she could, when asked, give both counsel and judgment with the sympathy of a man and the wisdom of a god.  She was the first person that I sought and that I would still seek if I were unhappy, because her genius lay in a penetrating understanding of the human heart and a determination to redress the balance of life’s unhappiness.  Etty and I attracted the same people.  She married Willy Grenfell,[Footnote:  Lord Desborough of Taplow Court.] a man to whom I was much attached and a British gladiator capable of challenging the world in boating and boxing.