It's hard at times to say which memory comes
in front of which. I recall him as presenting on the whole a series of
small surprises, as being again and again, unexpectedly, a little more
self-confident, a little more polished, a little richer and finer, a
little more aware of the positions and values of things and men.
There was a time--it must have been very early--when I saw him deeply
impressed by the splendours of the dining-room of the National Liberal
Club. Heaven knows who our host was or what that particular little
"feed" was about now!--all that sticks is the impression of our
straggling entry, a string of six or seven guests, and my uncle looking
about him at the numerous bright red-shaded tables, at the exotics in
great Majolica jars, at the shining ceramic columns and pilasters, at
the impressive portraits of Liberal statesmen and heroes, and all that
contributes to the ensemble of that palatial spectacle. He was betrayed
into a whisper to me, "This is all Right, George!" he said. That artless
comment seems almost incredible as I set it down; there came a time
so speedily when not even the clubs of New York could have overawed my
uncle, and when he could walk through the bowing magnificence of the
Royal Grand Hotel to his chosen table in that aggressively exquisite
gallery upon the river, with all the easy calm of one of earth's
legitimate kings.
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