His wife was very different, though quite as free from rhetoric.

Under a becalmed exterior Con Manners was a little brittle and found it difficult to say she was in the wrong; this impenitence caused some of her lovers a suffering of which she was unconscious; it is a minor failing which strikes a dumb note in me, but which I have since discovered is not only common, but almost universal.  I often warned people of Con’s dangerous smile when I observed them blundering along; but though she was uneven in her powers of forgiveness, the serious quarrel of her life was made up ultimately without reserve.  Lady Manners was clever, gracious, and understanding; she was more worldly, more adventurous and less deprecating than her husband; people meant a great deal to her; and the whole of London was at her feet, except those lonely men and women who specialise in collecting the famous as men collect centipedes.

To digress here.  I asked my friend Mr. Birrell once how the juste milieu was to be found—­for an enterprising person—­between running after the great men of the day and missing them; and he said: 

“I would advise you to live among your superiors, Margot, but to be of them.”

Con was one of the few women of whom it could be said that she was in an equal degree a wonderful wife, mother, sister and friend.  Her charm of manner and the tenderness of her regard gave her face beauty that was independent—­almost a rival of fine features—­and she was a saint of goodness.

Her love of flowers made every part of her home, inside and out, radiant; and her sense of humour and love of being entertained stimulated the witty and the lazy.

For nineteen years I watched her go about her daily duties with a quiet grace and serenity infinitely restful to live with, and when I was separated from her it nearly broke my heart.  In connection with the love Con and I had for each other I will only add an old French quotation: 

“Par grace infinie Dieu les mist au mande ensemble.”

My dear friend, Mrs. Hamlyn, was the chatelaine of the famous Clovelly, in Devonshire, and was Con’s sister.  She had the spirit of eternal youth and was full of breathless admiration.  I hardly ever met any one who derived so much pleasure and surprise out of ordinary life.  She was as uncritical and tolerant of those she loved as she was narrow and vehement over those who had unaccountably offended her.  She had an ebullient and voracious sense of humour and was baffled and eblouie by titled people, however vulgar and ridiculous they might be.  By this I do not mean she was a snob—­on the contrary she made and kept friends among the frumps and the obscure, to whom she showed faithful hospitality; but she was old-fashioned and thought that all duchesses were ladies.

Christine Hamlyn was a character-part:  but, if the machinery was not invented by which you could remove her prejudices, no tank could turn her from her friends.  It was through the Souls and these friends whom I have endeavoured to describe that I entered into a new phase of my life.