and was unattended by any personal secretary, though several French
ministers and officials appropriate to the particular matter in hand
would be present round him. His walk, his hand, and his voice were not
lacking in vigor, but he bore nevertheless, especially after the attempt
upon him, the aspect of a very old man conserving his strength for
important occasions. He spoke seldom, leaving the initial statement of
the French case to his ministers or officials; he closed his eyes often
and sat back in his chair with an impassive face of parchment, his gray
gloved hands clasped in front of him. A short sentence, decisive or
cynical, was generally sufficient, a question, an unqualified
abandonment of his ministers, whose face would not be saved, or a
display of obstinacy reinforced by a few words in a piquantly delivered
English.[6] But speech and passion were not lacking when they were
wanted, and the sudden outburst of words, often followed by a fit of
deep coughing from the chest, produced their impression rather by force
and surprise than by persuasion.

Not infrequently Mr. Lloyd George, after delivering a speech in English,
would, during the period of its interpretation into French, cross the
hearthrug to the President to reinforce his case by some _ad hominem_
argument in private conversation, or to sound the ground for a
compromise,--and this would sometimes be the signal for a general
upheaval and disorder. The President's advisers would press round him, a
moment later the British experts would dribble across to learn the
result or see that all was well, and next the French would be there, a
little suspicious lest the others were arranging something behind them,
until all the room were on their feet and conversation was general in
both languages. My last and most vivid impression is of such a
scene--the President and the Prime Minister as the center of a surging
mob and a babel of sound, a welter of eager, impromptu compromises and