A stout, red-faced stove glowed cheerfully in one corner of the room. Back of the stove a sleepy cat opened one indolent eye, yawned shamelessly, and rose to investigate, as is the way of cats. The windows were aglow with the sturdy potted plants that flower-loving German women coax into bloom. The low-ceilinged room twinkled and shone as the polished surfaces of tables and chairs reflected the rosy glow from the plethoric stove. I sank into the depths of a huge rocker that must have been built for Grosspapa Pflugel’s generous curves. Alma Pflugel, in a chair opposite, politely waited for this new process of interviewing to begin, but relaxed in the embrace of that great armchair I suddenly realized that I was very tired and hungry, and talk-weary, and that here; was a great peace. The prima donna, with her French, and her paint, and her pearls, and the prizefighter with his slang, and his cauliflower ear, and his diamonds, seemed creatures of another planet. My eyes closed. A delicious sensation of warmth and drowsy contentment stole over me. “Do listen to the purring of that cat!” I murmured. “Oh, newspapers have no place in this. This is peace and rest.” Alma Pflugel leaned forward in her chair. “You—you like it?” “Like it! This is home. I feel as though my mother were here in this room, seated in one of those deep chairs, with a bit of sewing in her hand; so near that I could touch her cheek with my fingers.” Alma Pflugel rose from her chair and came over to me. She timidly placed her hand on my arm. “Ah, I am so glad you are like that. You do not laugh at the low ceilings, and the sunken floors, and the old-fashioned rooms. You do not raise your eyes in horror and say: ‘No conveniences! And why don’t you try striped wall paper? It would make those dreadful ceilings seem higher.’ How nice you are to understand like that!” My hand crept over to cover her own that lay on my arm. “Indeed, indeed I do understand,” I whispered. Which, as the veriest cub reporter can testify, is no way to begin an interview.