“The Pines” would have seemed a strange place without “the Colonel,” as Watts-Dunton always called Mr. Hake, adopting a family name given to him when a boy on account of his likeness to his cousin, General, then Colonel, Gordon. Nothing amused Watts-Dunton more than for some caller to start discussing army matters with the supposed ex-officer. He would watch with a mischievous glee Mr. Hake’s endeavours to carry on a conversation in which he had no special interest. Watts-Dunton never informed callers of their mistake, and to this day there is one friend of twenty-five years’ standing, a man keenly interested in National Defence, who regards Mr. Hake as an authority upon army matters. “No living man knew Borrow so well as Thomas Hake,” Watts-Dunton once remarked to a friend. To the young Hakes Lavengro was a great joy, and they would often accompany him part of his way home from Coombe End. On one occasion Borrow said to the youngest boy, “Do you know how to fight a man bigger than yourself?” The lad confessed that he did not. “Well,” said Borrow, “You challenge him to fight, and when he is taking off his coat, you hit him in the stomach as hard as you can and run for your life.” Swinburne and Watts-Dunton had first met in 1872. In 1879 they went to live together at “The Pines,” and from that date were never parted until Swinburne’s death thirty years’ later. In no literary friendship has the bond been closer. Watts-Dunton’s first act each morning was to visit Swinburne in his own room, where the poet breakfasted alone with the morning newspapers. During the morning the two would take their daily walk together, a practice continued for many years. “There is no time like the morning for a walk,” Swinburne would say, “The sparkle, the exhilaration of it. I walk every morning of my life, no matter what the weather, pelting along all the time as fast as I can go.” His perfect health he attributed entirely to this habit. In later years he would take his walks alone. It was during one of these that he met with an adventure that seemed to cause him some irritation. A young artist hearing that “the master” walked each day up Putney Hill lay in wait for him. After several unsuccessful ventures he at length saw a figure approaching which he instantly recognized. Crossing the road the youth went boldly up and said:— “If you are Mr. Swinburne, may I shake hands with you?” “Eh?” remarked the astonished poet. The young man repeated his request in a louder voice, remembering Swinburne’s deafness, adding:— “It is my ambition to shake hands with you, sir.” “Oh! very well,” was the response, as Swinburne half-heartedly extended his hand, “I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing.”