o, when Sir Herbert Tree called to see him. I do not recollect
what they talked about, but the time came for the famous actor to go.
The last I saw of him was the sight of his motor-car disappearing and
Sir Herbert waving a great hat, while Chesterton waved a great stick. I
never saw Tree again. Not long after, the world waved farewell to him
for ever.

One of the most frequent visitors to his home is Mr. Belloc, and it is
said that he always demands beer and bacon. One day it so happened that
Mr. Wells came in about tea-time. He seemed, it is said, gloomy during
the meal, and finally the cause was discovered! Mr. Wells also wanted
beer and bacon. It was forthcoming, and the great novelist was
satisfied. It is at least interesting to know that on one point at least
Belloc and Wells are agreed--that beer and bacon are very excellent
things.

No word of Chesterton's home life would be complete without reference to
his dog Winkle. Winkle was more than a dog, he was an institution; he
had the most polished manners--the more you hurt him the more he wagged
his tail; if you trod on his tail he would almost apologize for being in
the way. He knew his master was a great man; he had a certain dignity,
but was never a snob. But the day came that Winkle died, and was, I am
sure, translated into Abraham's Bosom. Chesterton has now another dog,
but he will never get another Winkle. Such dogs are not found twice. I
am not sure, but I think one day Winkle will greet Chesterton in the
Land that lies the other side of the grave.

* * * * *

It is, I think, well known that Chesterton has a great liking for
children. He is often to be seen playing games with them or telling them
fairy stories; he is an optimist, and no optimist can dislike children.
He probably likes children for the very good reason that he is quite
grown up; it is no uncommon thing to see him sitting on the floor
drawing pictures to illustrate his stories. Which reminds me that
Chesterton is a remarkably clever artist. I would solemnly warn any one
who does not like his books defaced not to lend them to Chesterton. He
will not cut them, he will not leave them out in the sun, he will not
scorch them in front of the fire, but he will draw pictures on them. I
have looked through many books at his home--nearly all of them have
sketches in them. I have not the qualifications to speak of his art; I
do not know whether he can be consid