He told me
that he had always been a shy man and in some ways this is true of
him even now; but I am glad that I did not observe it at the time,
as shy people disconcerted me: I liked modesty, I pitied timidity,
but I was embarrassed by shyness.
I cannot truly say, however, that the word shy described my
husband at any time: he was a little gauche in movement and
blushed when he was praised, but I have never seen him nervous
with any one or embarrassed by any social dilemma. His unerring
instinct into all sorts of people and affairs--quite apart from
his intellectual temperament and learning--and his incredible lack
of vanity struck me at once. The art of making every man better
pleased with himself he had in a high degree; and he retains to
this day an incurable modesty.
When I discovered that he was married, I asked him to bring his
wife to dinner, which he did, and directy I saw her I said:
"I do hope, Mrs. Asquith, you have not minded your husband dining
here without you, but I rather gathered Hampstead was too far away
for him to get back to you from the House of Commons. You must
always let me know and come with him whenever it suits you."
In making this profound and attaching friendship with the
stranger of that House of Commons dinner, I had placed myself in a
difficult position when Helen Asquith died. To be a stepwife and a
stepmother was unthinkable, but at the same time the moment had
arrived when a decision--involving a great change in my life--had
become inevitable.
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