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?”