Of their soldier sons, Julian and Billy, I cannot write.  They and their friends, Edward Horner, Charles Lister and Raymond Asquith all fell in the war.  They haunt my heart; I can see them in front of me now, eternal sentinels of youth and manliness.

In spite of a voracious appetite for enjoyment and an expert capacity in entertaining, Etty Desborough was perfectly happy either alone with her family or alone with her books and could endure, with enviable patience, cold ugly country-seats and fashionable people.  I said of her when I first knew her that she ought to have lived in the days of the great King’s mistresses.  I would have gone to her if I were sad, but never if I were guilty.  Most of us have asked ourselves at one time or another whom we would go to if we had done a wicked thing; and the interesting part of this question is that in the answer you will get the best possible indication of human nature.  Many have said to me, “I would go to So-and-so, because they would understand my temptation and make allowances for me”; but the majority would choose the confidante most competent to point to the way of escape.  Etty Desborough would be that confidante.

She had neither father nor mother, but was brought up by two prominent and distinguished members of the Souls, my life-long and beloved friends, Lord and Lady Cowper of Panshanger, now, alas, both dead.  Etty had eternal youth and was alive to everything in life except its irony.

If for health or for any other reason I had been separated from my children when they were young, I would as soon have confided them to the love of Etty and Willy Desborough as to any of my friends.

To illustrate the jealousy and friction which the Souls caused, I must relate a conversational scrap I had at this time with Lady Londonderry,[Footnote:  The late Marchioness of Londonderry.] which caused some talk among our critics.

She was a beautiful woman, a little before my day, happy, courageous and violent, with a mind which clung firmly to the obvious.  Though her nature was impulsive and kind, she was not forgiving.  One day she said to me with pride: 

“I am a good friend and a bad enemy.  No kiss-and-make-friends about me, my dear!”

I have often wondered since, as I did then, what the difference between a good and a bad enemy is.

She was not so well endowed intellectually as her rival Lady de Grey, but she had a stronger will and was of sounder temperament.

There was nothing wistful, reflective or retiring about Lady Londonderry.  She was keen and vivid, but crude and impenitent.

We were accused entre autres of being conceited and of talking about books which we had not read, a habit which I have never had the temerity to acquire.  John Addington Symonds—­an intimate friend of mine—­had brought out a book of essays, which were not very good and caused no sensation.