“Joe,” said Mr. Lavender, whose eyes were almost starting from his head, “your words are the knell of poetry, philosophy, and prose—especially of prose. They are the grave of history, which, as you know, is made up of the wars and intrigues which have originated in the brains of public men. If your sordid views were true, how do you suppose for one minute that in this great epic struggle we could be consoled by the thought that we are 'making history'? Has there been a single utterance of any note which has not poured the balm of those words into our ears? Think how they have sustained the widow and the orphan, and the wounded lying out in agony under the stars. 'To make history,' 'to act out the great drama'—that thought, ever kept before us, has been our comfort and their stay. And you would take it from us? Shame—shame!” repeated Mr. Lavender. “You would destroy all glamour, and be the death of every principle.” “Give me facts,” said Joe stubbornly, “an' you may 'ave my principles. As to the other thing, I don't know what it is, but you may 'ave it, too. And 'ere's another thing, sir: haven't you never noticed that when a public man blows off and says something, it does 'im in? No matter what 'appens afterwards, he's got to stick to it or look a fool.” “I certainly have not,” said Mr. Lavender. “I have never, or very seldom, noticed that narrowness in public men, nor have I ever seen them 'looking fools' as you rudely put it.” “Where are your eyes, sir?” answered Joe; “where are your eyes? I give you my word it's one or the other, though I admit they've brought camouflage to an 'igh art. But, speaking soberly, sir, if that's possible, public men are a good thing' and you can 'ave too much of it. But you began it, sir,” he added soothingly, “and 'ere's your hotel. You'll feel better with something inside you.” So saying, he brought the car to a standstill before a sign which bore the words, “Royal Goat.” Mr. Lavender, deep sunk in the whirlpool of feeling which had been stirred in him by his chauffeur's cynicism, gazed at the square redbrick building with bewildered eyes. “It's quite O. K.,” said Joe; “I used to call here regular when I was travellin' in breeches. Where the commercials are gathered together the tap is good,” he added, laying a finger against the side of his nose. “And they've a fine brand of pickles. Here's your coupon.” Thus encouraged, Mr. Lavender descended from the car, and, accompanied by Blink, entered the hotel and sought the coffee-room. A maid of robust and comely appearance, with a fine free eye, divested him of his overcoat and the coupon, and pointed to a table and a pale and intellectual-looking young man in spectacles who was eating. “Have you any more beef?” said the latter without looking up. “No, sir,” replied the maid. “Then bring me the ham and eggs,” he added. “Here's another coupon—and anything else you've got.”