"And then," said the soldier, "came the order to charge. We fixed bayonets and rushed at the Bosches like mad. It was glorious--like the best kind of football match." The visitor took it all down, and more. "I remember bayonetting two men," said the soldier, "and then I remember nothing else. And that's six months ago. Still, I'm getting well, and then there's only one thing on earth that I really want with a passionate desire ..." "I know! I know!" said the visitor, moistening his pencil. "Never to see any more war as long as I live," the soldier continued. III. The aged artist sat in his luxurious studio surrounded by his masterpieces--that is, by the pictures he had never been able to sell. The gem of the collection stood on an easel in the middle of the room; while a connoisseur, hat in hand, inspected it closely, enthusiastically, breathlessly. Then, coming over to where the artist was resting, he sat down opposite to him and in a voice trembling with emotion asked, "Tell me, how _do_ you mix your colours?" There was a deep silence, almost painful in its intensity. A drawing-pin fell with a deafening crash. The venerable painter stood up with a calm and leonine expression. "I use an ivory palette knife," he said. IV. The shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden. It was a warm spring evening. The old sun-dial had just struck seven. The poet threw aside his book and called his Airedale terrier; the dog, responding in time, eventually reached his master's knee. Seizing his opportunity, the representative of the Press observed, "You are, I see, fond of dogs." "Fond of dogs?" replied the poet. "I? I detest them;" and so saying he kicked the Airedale a distance of several feet into the air, so that, falling immediately on the sun-dial, it was transfixed by the gnomon. As he watched its struggles, thus impaled, the poet laughed the hearty resonant laugh for which he was famous. V. The Civil Service clerk so famous for his drollery was entering the office doors at half-past ten in the morning, or exactly sixty minutes past the appointed time. By an unfortunate chance his principal met him, as, alas! he had too often done, at the same tardy hour. "Late again," said the great man, consulting his watch. "I believe that you get here later every day." "Yes," said the clerk, "I do. But then I always stay on and work overtime." VI. The eminent publicist replaced his glass on the table and turned to the lady who sat beside him. "My business," he said, "is the manufacture of mustard. I have made a vast fortune out of it." "How very interesting," the lady replied absently; but the next moment, inspired by a hidden thought, she added with quickened interest, "Please don't think me inquisitive, but how can a fortune be made out of a thing like mustard? People take so little of it." "Madam," answered the mustard magnate deliberately, "we do not make our fortunes from the mustard that people eat"--