Mr. Lavender passed his three days, therefore, in perfect repose, feeding Blink, staring at the ceiling, and conversing with Joe. An uneasy sense that he had been lacking in restraint caused his mind to dwell on life as seen by the monthly rather than the daily papers, and to hold with his chauffeur discussions of a somewhat philosophical character.
“As regards the government of this country, Joe,” he said, on the last evening of his retirement, “who do you consider really rules? For it is largely on this that our future must depend.”
“Can't say, sir,” answered Joe, “unless it's Botty.”
“I do not know whom or what you signify by that word,” replied Mr. Lavender; “I am wondering if it is the People who rule.”
“The People!” replied Joe; “the People's like a gent in a lunatic asylum, allowed to 'ave instinks but not to express 'em. One day it'll get aht, and we shall all step lively.”
“It is, perhaps, Public Opinion,” continued Mr. Lavender to himself, “as expressed in the Press.”
“Not it,” said Joe, “the nearest opinion the Press gets to expressin' is that of Mayors. 'Ave you never noticed, sir, that when the Press is 'ard up for support of an opinion that the public don't 'old, they go to the Mayors, and get 'em in two columns?”
“Mayors are most valuable public men,” said Mr. Lavender.
“I've nothin' against 'em,” replied Joe; “very average lot in their walk of life; but they ain't the People.”
Mr. Lavender sighed. “What, then, is the People, Joe?”