The P.P. greeted us with benignant expectancy.  His white apron merely accentuated the obvious fact that he had come in a limousine.  I have since decided that he mistook me for an eccentric peer.  It seems that eccentric peers and struggling journalists are apt to provide the same air of sartorial abandon to the eye of the uninitiated.

It was the young nephew, however, who made the running.  The entire menagerie whistled, barked, sat up on its hind legs, performed acrobatic feats and said, “Scratch poor Polly,” at his discriminating behest.  Finally he reached a point where he simply could not decide between a Goliath cockatoo at L22 10_s_. and a white-faced Douroucouli at twenty-seven guineas.

At this juncture I insinuated myself into the discussion, and by the exercise of subtle pressure got him to compromise on a pair of white rats at half-a-crown.  Never shall I forget the look of majestic contempt with which the Personage withered me as he extracted two torpid rodents from a congeries of their kith and, holding them by their pink tails, dropped them into a paper bag with the air of a Marchese depositing alms in the palm of a lazzarone.

Not lightly indeed did I again enter into the Presence.  But on this occasion duty called.  The troubadour with lady’s glove in helm never showed a bolder front than the journalist in search of copy.  And boldness, it seemed, was to be rewarded.  As I approached the Pontifical Personage it appeared certain that he did not remember me.  And why, I asked myself, should he?  Had I been the Duke of BEDFORD or the President of the Ladies’ Kennel Club I might have expected a place in his august memory.  But an insignificant uncle buying white rats—­it was absurd, of course, to fear recognition.

I plunged straightway in medias res.  “I have here,” I said, “a journal of unimpeachable veracity which declares that the Pasteur Institute in Paris is suffering from a guinea-pig shortage.  Please oblige me with your expert opinion on this momentous matter.”

The P.P. smiled slightly, cleared his throat and, waving me to the further end of the menagerie, proceeded to answer my question.  “The common or Sicilian guinea-pig,” he began, “the Porculus Auriferus Excubitor of BUFFON, is still fairly common, though I may say that it is many a day since they could be purchased for a guinea.  An allied species, the Chinese or edible guinea-pig, the Sing Fat Soo of the Cantonese restaurateur, is indeed quite plentiful, but for some reason or other has never found favour with the leading English fanciers.  The fact is that since the War our customers have become more discerning, and the common guinea-pig, being no longer called for, is not bred and has therefore ceased to be available for scientific purposes.  A few of the art shades, notably tete-negre and beige pigs, are still in request by the furriers; but the public demand is for something more select.