In the first place, how dared I put myself forward and offer to see George's visitors! But the young man asked for me--at least, when he was told that George was out, he said might he see one of the young ladies? Of course I don't suppose that would have occurred to him, only I was leaning over the new aluminium bannisters, and caught his eye. Then an idea seemed to come into his head. The look of disappointment that had come over him when he was told that George was out changed to a little happy perky look, as if he had just thought of something amusing. He crooked his little finger at me as I slid down the bannister, and said would I do? and would he come in? Kate is a cheeky girl, but even the cook admits that Kate is not a patch upon me. Kate evidently didn't think it quite right, but she slunk away into the back premises, and left me to deal with the young man. He handed me a card. I thought that very polite of him, and "_Mr. Frederick Cook_," and Representative of _The Bittern_ down in the corner, explained it all to me. We take in about a hundred rags, and that's the name of one of them. It's called _The Bittern_ because it booms people, so George says. "I suppose you have come to interview my Father," I said. "I'm sorry, but he is out. Did you have an appointment?" "No, I didn't," said the young man right out. I liked his nice bold way of speaking; he was the least shy young man I ever met. "I don't believe in appointments. The subject is conscious, primed, braced up, ready with a series of cards, so to speak, which he wishes to force on the patient public--a collection of least characteristic facts which he would like dragged into prominence. It is as if a man should go to the dentist with his mind made up as to the number of teeth that he is to have pulled out, a decision which should always rest with any dentist who respects himself." He went running on like that, not a bit shy, or anything, and amused me very much. "But then the worst of that is, you've got no appointment with George, and he is not here to have his teeth pulled out." I really so far wasn't quite sure if he was an interviewer or a dentist, but I kept calm. "All the better, my dear young lady, that is if you are willing to aid and abet me a little. Then we shall have a thundering good interview, I can promise you. You see, in my theory of interviewing, the actual collaboration of the patient--shall we call him?--is unnecessary. Indeed, it is more in the nature of an impediment. My method, which of course I have very few opportunities of practising, is to seek out his nearest and dearest, those who have the privilege--or annoyance--of seeing him at all hours, at all seasons, unawares. If a painter, 'tis the wife of his brush that I would question; if an author, the partner of his pen--do you take me?"