caught Robert Louis Stevenson and were comprehended of him. The return
observation was, 'I never met anybody with such a bright, at moments
almost weird, genius-gifted eye, as that of Stevenson.' Sir George could
fire imagination in the most ordinary mortal, carrying him off into
enchanted realms. He sailed to strange skies, a knight-errant of a star,
and he could tow the masses with him. He lifted them out of themselves,
and put a label on their vague yearnings. They had imagination, the
instinct upward, and were grateful to have it discovered.

The poetry of Sir George's nature flavoured his language, alike in manner
of delivery and turn of phrase. It had a quaint old-world style; it fell
slowly, in a low, soothing voice. He might have spent his, days in the
cloister, rather than in the din of hammering up hearths for the Anglo-
Saxon. Perhaps it was that he had talked so long to the hills of Oceana,
catching their simplicity and music. You were reminded of the measured
English of an old and lovable book, just as you grew used to read in his
face what he was to say, before the words had begun to flow. Never was
there a face more quick to reflect the mind, more pliable to humour, more
luminous at some stirring idea or deed, more indignant at the bare notion
of a wrong inflicted, softer at the call of sympathy.

Sir George had travelled to Windsor with the Earl of Rosebery, then Prime
Minister, and that was an agreeable memory. Being asked what
characteristics he noted as most prominent in the Premier, he replied:
'Oh, his extraordinary readiness at seeing the humorous side of anything,
his almost boyish love of fun. He seems to have a power of dismissing the
weight of public affairs, of diverting himself with the playfulness of
youth.' Sir George was living in Park Place, St. James's, and on
returning from Windsor the Premier drove him there. His rooms were at
Number 7, and here the street ended in a sharp incline, with somebody's