that!" he said; "I feel as if you had said something cynical about
someone very dear to me, and far more than that. Please promise not to
speak of it again."

It was in these days that I first perceived the extraordinary charm of
both mind and manner that he possessed. In old days he had been amusing
and argumentative enough, but he was often silent and absorbed. I think
his charm had been developed by his new experiences, and by the number
of strangers he had been brought into contact with; he had learned an
eager and winning sort of courtesy, which grew and increased every year.
On one point we wholly and entirely agreed--namely, in thinking rudeness
of any kind to be not a mannerism, but a deadly sin. "I find injustice
or offensiveness to myself or anyone else," he once wrote, "the hardest
of all things to forgive." We concurred in detesting the habit of
licensing oneself to speak one's mind, and the unpleasant English trait
of confusing sincerity with frank brutality. There is a sort of
Englishman who thinks he has a right, if he feels cross or contemptuous,
to lay bare his mood without reference to his companion's feelings; and
this seemed to us both the ugliest of phenomena.

[Illustration: _Photo by Russell & Sons_

ROBERT HUGH BENSON

IN 1907. AGED 35]

Hugh saw a good deal of academic society in a quiet way--Cambridge is a
hospitable place. I remember the consternation which was caused by his
fainting away suddenly after a Feast at King's. He had been wedged into
a corner, in front of a very hot fire, by a determined talker, and