Yet the avoidance of anything which might precipitate strife was indeed in these days most desirable.  June 28th saw the murder of the Archduke at Sarajevo.  The European sky grew rapidly overcast.  Days passed, and the possibility of civil war was exchanged for the near probability of European war which might find the British Empire divided against itself.

It was necessary in the highest interests of State for the Government to make an effort to compose the cause of so much violent faction, which might at any moment assume acute form.  The Amending Bill, introduced in the House of Lords with the Government’s offer embodied in it, had been altered by the Peers in a manner which Lord Morley described as tantamount to rejection.  In this shape it was to come before the House of Commons on July 20th.  But on that Monday, when the House reassembled after the weekly holiday, the Prime Minister rose at once and announced in tones of no ordinary solemnity that the King had thought it right to summon representatives of parties both British and Irish to a Conference next day at Buckingham Palace, over which Mr. Speaker would preside.

Redmond in two brief sentences guarded his attitude.  He disclaimed all responsibility for the policy of calling the Conference and expressed no opinion as to its chances of success.  The invitation had reached him and Mr. Dillon in the form of a command from the King, and as such they had accepted it.

Some may remember how radiantly fine were those far-off days in July which led us up to the brink of such undreamt-of happenings.  On the Tuesday night I was sitting alone on the Terrace, when Redmond came out.  For once, he was in a mood to talk.  His mind was full of the strangeness and interest of that first day’s Conference—­a council, or parley, so momentous, so unprecedented.  It touched what was very strong in him—­the historic imagination.  He told me how the King had received them all, stayed with them for some intercourse of welcome, and had been specially marked in his courtesy to Redmond himself, who had of course never before been presented to him.  Then, he had accompanied them to the room set apart for their deliberations and had left them with their chairman, the Speaker.  When I think over Redmond’s description of the Sovereign’s personality, it seems to me that he was describing one so paralysed, as it were, by anxiety as to have lost the power of easy, genial and natural speech.  But the dominant thought in his mind did not concern King George.  One figure stood out—­Sir Edward Carson.  “As an Irishman,” Redmond said, “you could not help being proud to see how he towered above the others.  They simply did not count.  He took charge absolutely.”

As I gathered, the eight members sat four on each side of a long table, with the Speaker at the head.  The Irish leaders were on his right and left, and the discussion was chiefly between them.

It turned mainly on the question of the area to be excluded.  Enormous trouble had been taken, and Redmond told me later that a great map in relief had been constructed, showing the distribution of Protestant and Catholic population.  This brought out with astonishing vividness the contrast:  the Catholics were on the mountains and hill-tops, the Protestants down along the valley lands.