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T were well could one of the "Men I have painted" take up the pen and contribute a character sketch of the "Man who has painted me": for among all these living and admirable studies, it is doubtful if there is one individuality more unusual or more interesting than that of the writer himself. To me, the lucky chance (if anything in this world is chance) that brought John McLure Hamilton to my Hawarden home in the early 'nineties was invaluable, for it was the beginning of a deeply valued friendship, of an intercourse rich in experience. Had I the pen of a De Morgan, let alone the tongue of men and angels, a book might have been written on the five (in their different ways) unique members of this family, a book which would have surpassed even Joseph Vance or Alice for Short. May I hope to have the chance in another world.

I can never forget the moment when Mr. Hamilton, after a day or two spent anonymously in the Temple of Peace (Hawarden Castle), came into the library and asked us to come and look at his picture. I must first explain that Mr. Gladstone had a habit of concentration, acquired by long years of self-discipline, that resulted in complete ignorance of the presence of others, were they strangers or friends, in his room. So long as they read or worked in