“By all means,” said Mr. Lavender, perceiving at once that he was being interviewed.  “I shall be most happy to give you my views.  Please take a cigarette, for I believe that is usual.  I myself do not smoke.  If it is the human touch you want, you may like to know that I gave it up when that appeal in your contemporary flooded the trenches with cigarettes and undermined the nerves of our heroes.  By setting an example of abstinence, and at the same time releasing more tobacco for our men, I felt that I was but doing my duty.  Please don’t mention that, though.  And while we are on the personal note, which I sincerely deprecate, you might like to stroll round the room and look at the portrait of my father, behind the door, and of my mother, over the fireplace.  Forgive my not accompanying you.  The fact is—­this is an interesting touch—­I have always been rather subject to lumbago.”  And seeing the nephew Sinkin, who had risen to his suggestion, standing somewhat irresolutely in front of him, he added:  “Perhaps you would like to look a little more closely at my eyes.  Every now and then they flash with an almost uncanny insight.”  For by now he had quite forgotten his modesty in the identification he felt with the journal which was interviewing him.  “I am fifty-eight,” he added quickly; “but I do not look my years, though my hair, still thick and full of vigour, is prematurely white—­so often the case with men whose brains are continually on the stretch.  The little home, far from grandiose, which forms the background to this most interesting personality is embowered in trees.  Cats have made their mark on its lawns, and its owner’s love of animals was sharply illustrated by the sheep-dog which lay on his feet clad in Turkish slippers.  Get up, Blink!”

Blink, disturbed by the motion of her master’s feet, rose and gazed long into his face.

“Look!” said Mr. Lavender, “she has the most beautiful eyes in the world.”

At this remark, which appeared to him no saner than the others he had heard—­so utterly did he misjudge Mr. Lavender’s character—­the nephew put down the notebook he had taken out of his pocket, and said: 

“Has there ever been anything—­er—­remarkable about your family?”

“Indeed, yes,” said Mr. Lavender.  Born of poor but lofty parentage in the city of Rochester, my father made his living as a publisher; my mother was a true daughter of the bards, the scion of a stock tracing its decent from the Druids; her name was originally Jones.”

“Ah!” said the nephew Sinkin, writing.

“She has often told me at her knee,” continued Mr. Lavender, “that there was a strong vein of patriotism in her family.”

“She did not die—­in—­in——­”

“No, indeed,” interrupted Mr. Lavender; she is still living there.”

“Ah!” said the nephew.  “And your brothers and sisters?”

“One of my brothers,” replied Mr. Lavender, with pardonable pride, “is the editor of Cud Bits.  The other is a clergyman.”