"The gas-stove," I said, "is very well; but—er—comfort, you know, is not exactly the word. It—it—I say, you know, that woman with the dying baby was rather quaint." "This," said the doctor, "is a quaint sort of gas-stove. We often roast chaps on it. Do you like beer?" "Not much," I answered, "but my brother plays the flute." "Because," pursued my host, ignoring this effort at repartee, "my consultations are nearly over for this morning, and then I am going my round, and that is a short one, and I shall be back here by one o’clock, and after that I propose to brew some beer. Would you like to help me?" The proposition was not without a certain suddenness, but I was getting used to this household, and did not betray my surprise. Also, I accepted the invitation. "Righto! Come about yourself? How’s your appetite?" said the doctor, in one breath, as he disappeared from the window and readdressed himself to business. * * * * * And in the afternoon we duly did this brewing. "One brews in Baffin’s studio," explained the doctor, with a slight yawn, as he led me through the kitchen door into his little yard, all bright with tulips. "Baffin’s studio is really our washhouse, you know." "And who is Baffin?" I demanded. "One of the Leicestershire Baffins," replied the doctor gravely. "His mother was a Pillbrook. His uncle——" I begged the doctor to restrain his gift of humour. "Where is Baffin? What is he?" I demanded again. "Oh," said the doctor, "if you are really commonplace enough to be interested in a man himself when you ask, "who he is," I will expound this Baffin to you. He has red hair and freckles, and he is one of the Leicestershire Baffins, and he hates the Leicestershire Baffins, and he is a youth of great talents, who is supposed to live here, but at present he is reforming the Royal Academy, and reviving poster art in England. And he never puts anything where he will find it again, or shuts a drawer or folds his clothes. He is a genius. And—— Look out, I say, that’s Baffin’s bag." It _was_ Baffin’s bag, and it assisted your servant in the performance of a complicated somersault. Baffin had left it on his doorstep.