It was at No. 40 Grosvenor Square that Gladstone met Lord Randolph Churchill.  The latter had made himself famous by attacking and abusing the Grand Old Man with such virulence that every one thought it impossible that they could ever meet in intimacy again.  I was not awed by this, but asked them to a luncheon party; and they both accepted.  I need hardly say that when they met they talked with fluency and interest, for it was as impossible for Gladstone to be gauche or rude as it was for any one to be ill at ease with Randolph Churchill.  The news of their lunching with us spread all over London; and the West-end buzzed round me with questions:  all the political ladies, including the Duchess of Manchester, were torn with curiosity to know whether Randolph was going to join the Liberal Party.  I refused to gratify their curiosity, but managed to convey a general impression that at any moment our ranks, having lost Mr. Chamberlain, were going to be reinforced by Lord Randolph Churchill.

The Duchess of Manchester (who became the late Duchess of Devonshire) was the last great political lady in London society as I have known it.  The secret of her power lay not only in her position—­many people are rich and grand, gay and clever and live in big houses—­but in her elasticity, her careful criticisms, her sense of justice and discretion.  She not only kept her own but other people’s secrets; and she added to a considerable effrontery and intrepid courage, real kindness of heart.  I have heard her reprove and mildly ridicule all her guests, both at Compton Place and at Chatsworth, from the Prince of Wales to the Prime Minister.  I asked her once what she thought of a certain famous lady, whose arrogance and vulgarity had annoyed us all, to which she answered: 

“I dislike her too much to be a good judge of her.”

One evening, many years after the time of which I am writing, she was dining with us, and we were talking tete-a-tete.

“Margot,” she said, “you and I are very much alike.”

It was impossible to imagine two more different beings than myself and the Duchess of Devonshire—­morally, physically or intellectually—­so I asked her what possible reason she had for thinking so, to which she answered: 

“We have both married angels; when Hartington dies he will go straight to Heaven”—­pointing her first finger high above her head—­“and when Mr. Asquith dies he will go straight there, too; not so Lord Salisbury,” pointing her finger with a diving movement to the floor.

You met every one at her house, but she told me that before 1886- 1887 political opponents hardly ever saw one another and society was much duller.