s to see a desert, and a desert with no altar
and with no monument, without even one tomb at which a friend might
weep. One does not say of him, "He nearly succeeded there," or "What a
tragedy that he turned from this to take up that"; one does not feel for
him at any point in his career as one feels for Mr. George Wyndham or
even for Lord Randolph Churchill; from its outset until now that career
stretches before our eyes in a flat and uneventful plain of successful
but inglorious and ineffective self-seeking.

There is one signal characteristic of the Balfourian manner which is
worthy of remark. It is an assumption in general company of a most
urbane, nay, even a most cordial spirit. I have heard many people
declare at a public reception that he is the most gracious of men, and
seen many more retire from shaking his hand with a flush of pride on
their faces as though Royalty had stooped to inquire after the measles
of their youngest child. Such is ever the effect upon vulgar minds of
geniality in superiors: they love to be stooped to from the heights.

But this heartiness of manner is of the moment only, and for everybody;
it manifests itself more personally in the circle of his intimates and
is irresistible in week-end parties; but it disappears when Mr. Balfour
retires into the shell of his private life and there deals with
individuals, particularly with dependents. It has no more to do with his
spirit than his tail-coat and his white tie. Its remarkable impression
comes from its unexpectedness; its effect is the shock of surprise. In
public he is ready to shake the whole world by the hand, almost to pat
it on the shoulder; but in private he is careful to see that the world
does not enter even the remotest of his lodge gates.

"The truth about Arthur Balfour," said George Wyndham, "is this: he
knows there's been one ice-age, and he thinks there's going to be
another."

Little as the general public may suspect it, the charming, gracious, and
cultured Mr. Balfour is the most egotistical of men, and a man who would
make almost any sacrifice to remain in office. It costs him nothing to
serve under Mr. Lloyd George; it would have cost him almost his life to
be out of office during a period so exciting as that of the Great War.
He loves office more than anything this world can offer; neither in
philosophy nor music, literature nor science, has he ever been able to
find rest for his soul. It is profoundly instructive tha