For many months I saw him almost daily at Paris. His was a heart of
gold, whether in personal or international relations; but a heart
of gold does not make a great negotiator. Perverse and
nationalistic races of men, incredulous of the millenium, keep
their hearts of gold at home when they go out to deal with their
neighbors.

It was difficult for Colonel House to say no. He might go so far as
to utter the first letter of that indispensable monosyllable; but
before he accomplished the vowel, his mind would turn to some happy
"formula" passing midway between no and yes. He was fertile in
these expedients. Daily he would talk of some new "formula," for
Fiume, for Dantzig, for the Saar Valley, for the occupation of the
Rhine, for Shantung, always happily, always hopefully. The amiable
William Allen White hit off his disposition perfectly when he said
House's daily prayer was, "Give us this day our daily compromise."

When he split a hair between the south and southwest side, it was
not for logistic pleasure; it was to divide it with splendid
justice and send each of two rival claimants away happy in the
possession of exactly half of the slender filament, so that neither
would be empty handed. I never saw a man so overjoyed as he was one
day late in April or early in May when M. Clemenceau had left his
rooms in the Hotel Crillon with the promise of Franco-American
defensive alliance.

"The old man," he said, "is very happy. He has got what he has been
after. I can't tell you just now what it is. But he has got it at
last."