Balfour was blessed or cursed at his birth, according to individual opinion, by two assets:  charm and wits.  The first he possessed to a greater degree than any man, except John Morley, that I have ever met.  His social distinction, exquisite attention, intellectual tact, cool grace and lovely bend of the head made him not only a flattering listener, but an irresistible companion.  The disadvantage of charm—­which makes me say cursed or blessed—­is that it inspires every one to combine and smooth the way for you throughout life.  As the earnest housemaid removes dust, so all his friends and relations kept disagreeable things from his path; and this gave him more leisure in his life than any one ought to have.

His wits, with which I say that he was also cursed or blessed—­ quite apart from his brains—­gave him confidence in his improvisings and the power to sustain any opinion on any subject, whether he held the opinion or not, with equal brilliance, plausibility and success, according to his desire to dispose of you or the subject.  He either finessed with the ethical basis of his intellect or had none.  This made him unintelligible to the average man, unforgivable to the fanatic and a god to the blunderer.

On one occasion my husband and I went to a lunch, given by old Mr. McEwan, to meet Mr. Frank Harris.  I might have said what my sister Laura did, when asked if she had enjoyed herself at a similar meal.  “I would not have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been there,” as, with the exception of Arthur Balfour, I did not know a soul in the room.  He sat like a prince, with his sphinx-like imperviousness to bores, courteous and concentrated on the languishing conversation.  I made a few gallant efforts and my husband, who is particularly good on these self-conscious occasions, did his best ... but to no purpose.

Frank Harris, in a general disquisition to the table, at last turned to Arthur Balfour and said, with an air of finality: 

“The fact is, Mr. Balfour, all the faults of the age come from Christianity and journalism.”

To which Arthur replied with rapier quickness and a child-like air: 

“Christianity, of course ... but why journalism?”

When men said, which they have done now for over thirty years, that Arthur Balfour was too much of a philosopher to be really interested in politics, I always contradicted them.  With his intellectual taste, perfect literary style and keen interest in philosophy and religion, nothing but a great love of politics could account for his not having given up more of his time to writing.  People thought that he was not interested because he had nothing active in his political aspirations; he saw nothing that needed changing.  Low wages, drink, disease, sweating and overcrowding did not concern him; they left him cold, and he had not the power to express moral indignation which he was too detached to feel.