“Well, my dear Admiral, I hear you are the greatest blackguard in Portsmouth!”

At which the Admiral drew himself up, saluted the King and said: 

“I hope, Sir, you have not come down to take away my reputation.”

I find in an old diary an account of a drive I had with Gladstone after my sister Laura died.  This is what I wrote: 

“On Saturday, 29th May, 1886, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone came to pay us a visit at 40 Grosvenor Square.  Papa had been arranging the drawing-room preparatory to their arrival and was in high spirits.  I was afraid he might resent my wish to take Mr. Gladstone up to my room after lunch and talk to him alone.  However, Aunty Pussy—­as we called Mrs. Gladstone—­with a great deal of winking, led papa away and said to mamma: 

“‘William and Margot are going to have a little talk!’

“I had not met or seen Mr. Gladstone since Laura’s death.

“When he had climbed up to my boudoir, he walked to the window and admired the trees in the square, deploring their uselessness and asking whether the street lamp—­which crossed the square path in the line of our eyes—­was a child.

“I asked him if he would approve of the square railings being taken away and the glass and trees made into a place with seats, such as you see in foreign towns, not merely for the convenience of sitting down, but for the happiness of invalids and idlers who court the shade or the sun.  This met with his approval, but he said with some truth that the only people who could do this—­or prevent it—­were ‘the resident aristocracy.’

“He asked if Laura had often spoken of death.  I said yes and that she had written about it in a way that was neither morbid nor terrible.  I showed him some prayers she had scribbled in a book, against worldliness and high spirits.  He listened with reverence and interest.  I don’t think I ever saw his face wear the expression that Millais painted in our picture as distinctly as when, closing the book, he said to me: 

“’It requires very little faith to believe that so rare a creature as your sister Laura is blessed and with God.’

“Aunty Pussy came into the room and the conversation turned to Laurence Oliphant’s objection to visiting the graves of those we love.  They disagreed with this and he said: 

“’I think, on the contrary, one should encourage oneself to find consolation in the few tangible memories that one can claim; it should not lessen faith in their spirits; and there is surely a silent lesson to be learnt from the tombstone.’

“Papa and mamma came in and we all went down to tea.  Mr. G., feeling relieved by the change of scene and topic, began to talk and said he regretted all his life having missed the opportunity of knowing Sir Walter Scott, Dr. Arnold and Lord Melbourne.  He told us a favourite story of his.  He said: 

“’An association of ladies wrote and asked me to send them a few words on that unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots.  In the penury of my knowledge and the confusion arising from the conflicting estimates of poor Mary, I thought I would write to Bishop Stubbs.  All he replied was, “Mary is looking up."’