Mr. Chamberlain has never been a good mixer. On the
one or two occasions when he has visited the smoking-room a hush of awkward awe has descended upon that gay tap-room as when the headmaster, with unconvincing conviviality, looms in upon the sixth-form tea. Mr. Churchill, on the other hand, alternates between aloof preoccupation (during which mood he is oblivious of all around him) and the utmost friendliness. At the very summit of last week's crisis he could have been observed sitting in the smoking-room, waving a gigantic cigar, sipping his ginger ale, and reducing two Labour back-benchers to delighted paroxysms of laughter. His wit on such occasions rises high in the air like some strong foun- tain, flashing in every sunbeam, and renewing itself with ever increasing jets and gusts of image and association. Not so Mr. Chamberlain. His jokes are few and far between, and have their cumbrous side.
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