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was the right one.
    He was torn with doubts. He felt the government was going in the wrong direction and could not last much longer. His own hopes of Cabinet rank were slipping farther and farther away from him. He was a man who, once he had determined to achieve something, could not lightly give up.
    I began to realize that during that time he was trying to come to a decision.
    He admitted to me on one occasion that he shared the view of the Opposition on the Bill. What if he went against his leader? What would his hopes for further advancement in the party be then? Did he owe his loyalty to his leader or to his conscience?
    Could he give his support to something he did not believe in? On the other hand, could he be disloyal to the party?
    We talked about it endlessly. His opinion swayed. He was, after all, a very ambitious man; and he was no longer young. He could not change sides now. There was something suspect about a man who changed sides. People usually said it was done to gain advantages.
    But he did feel strongly about the Irish question.
    “You see,” he said to me, “the PM is growing old … many say too old. He had great flair in his heyday. I’d say he was one of the greatest politicians this country has ever known; but he gets obsessions. After all, there were those years when he embarked on his crusade to save the women of the streets.”
    I knew of this. I had heard it discussed how Mr. Gladstone would go out late at night and stroll about round Piccadilly and Soho, those areas which were the stamping grounds of the prostitute population. When he was accosted—as any man who showed an inclination to loiter would be—he would question the young woman, making sure not to adopt a moral tone, offer sympathy and invite her to his house. The women who went with him must have been amazed to find a genteel Mrs. Gladstone waiting to offer supper and good advice, joining with her husband in the attempt to set them on the road to a more virtuous way of life.
    This he had done over forty years—whenever possible dedicating one night a week to his self-appointed task.
    “Of course, he has always been different from other men,” said my father. “He is way above most. He has an idea and he clings to it. It never occurs to him that he may be doing harm to himself. He must follow what he believes to be right. And just as he had his crusade to rescue women of the streets, now he is determined to give Ireland Home Rule. Trafficking with fallen women might easily have ruined his career. In fact certain rumors regarding his intentions were inevitable, but he shrugged all that aside. He had a mission and he was determined to carry it out. You see, in some ways, he is far from being a normal man.”
    “He believes firmly in Home Rule for Ireland,” I said, “just as you are beginning to feel it is not the answer. His obsession with it could bring him down. Yet he will not hesitate.”
    “I fear there may be civil war. He forgets that there are many in Northern Ireland particularly who did not want Home Rule. He will destroy himself if he continues.”
    I said, “He is something of a saint. He must do what he feels right, whatever the consequences to himself.”
    My father was increasingly becoming aware that he could not go along with Gladstone this time; at length he came to his decision—and it was to prove fatal to him.
    His conscience won.
    His first step was to speak at a meeting declaring his opposition to the Bill. It was reported in all the papers, as his speeches usually were. He had always been a powerful and witty speaker; he had great charisma; he was the kind of man who drew attention to himself. There was his somewhat shady past and the fact that he had missed a brilliant opportunity because of it that made him a focus of attention; and, moreover, he was always eminently quotable.
    The morning after he had made his speech, his name was well to the fore.
    LANSDON OPPOSES BILL. GLADSTONE’S HENCHMAN