" 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.
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