Raymond Asquith was born on the 6th of November, 1878, and was killed fighting against the Germans before his regiment had been in action ten minutes, on the 15th of September, 1916.

He was intellectually one of the most distinguished young men of his day and beautiful to look at, added to which he was light in hand, brilliant in answer and interested in affairs.  When he went to Balliol he cultivated a kind of cynicism which was an endless source of delight to the young people around him; in a good-humoured way he made a butt of God and smiled at man.  If he had been really keen about any one thing—­law or literature—­he would have made the world ring with his name, but he lacked temperament and a certain sort of imagination and was without ambition of any kind.

His education was started by a woman in a day-school at Hampstead; from there he took a Winchester scholarship and he became a scholar of Balliol.  At Oxford he went from triumph to triumph.  He took a first in classical moderations in 1899; first-class literae humaniores in 1901; first-class jurisprudence in 1902.  He won the Craven, Ireland, Derby and Eldon scholarships.  He was President of the Union and became a Fellow of All Souls in 1902; and after he left Oxford he was called to the Bar in 1904.

In spite of this record, a more modest fellow about his own achievements never lived.

Raymond was charming and good-tempered from his boyhood and I only remember him once in his life getting angry with me.  He had been urged to go into politics by both his wife and his father and had been invited by the Liberal Association of a northern town to become their candidate.  He was complaining about it one day to me, saying how dull, how stupid, how boring the average constituents of all electorates were; I told him I thought a closer contact with common people would turn out not only more interesting and delightful than he imagined, but that it would be the making of him.  He flared up at once and made me appear infinitely ridiculous, but being on sure ground I listened with amusement and indifference; the discussion ended amicably, neither of us having deviated by a hair’s breath from our original positions.  He and I seldom got on each other’s nerves, though two more different beings never lived.  His arctic analysis of what he looked upon as “cant” always stirred his listeners to a high pitch of enthusiasm.

One day when he was at home for his holidays and we were all having tea together, to amuse the children I began asking riddles.  I told them that I had only guessed one in my life, but it had taken me three days.  They asked me what it was, and I said: 

“What is it that God has never seen, that kings see seldom and that we see every day?”

Raymond instantly answered: 

“A joke.”

I felt that the real answer, which was “an equal,” was very tepid after this.

In 1907 he married, from 10 Downing Street, Katherine Horner, a beautiful creature of character and intellect, as lacking in fire and incense as himself.  Their devotion to each other and happiness was a perpetual joy to me, as I felt that in some ways I had contributed to it.  Katherine was the daughter of Laura’s greatest friend, Frances Horner, and he met her through me.