and a friend of ours had long since applied for the other vacancy, but
perhaps this is a better tie than that meaningless formality. My little
son is fifteen months old; a fair-haired, blue-eyed, stout little
Trojan, very like his mother. He looks out on the world with bold
confident eyes and open brow, as if he were its master. We shall try to
make him a better man than his father. As for the little one, I am told
she is pretty, and slavishly admit the fact in the presence of mother
and nurse, but between ourselves I don't see it. To my carnal eyes her
nose is the image of mine, and you know what that means. For though
wandering up and down the world and work have begun to sow a little
silver in my hair, they have by no means softened the outlines of that
remarkable feature.

You want to know what I am and where I am--well, here's a list of
titles. T.H.H., Professor of Natural History, Government School of
Mines, Jermyn Street; Naturalist to the Geological Survey; Curator of
the Paleontological collections (NON-OFFICIAL maid-of-all-work in
Natural Science to the Government); Examiner in Physiology and
Comparative Anatomy to the University of London; Fullerian Professor of
Physiology to the Royal Institution (but that's just over); F.R.S.,
F.G.S., etc. Member of a lot of Societies and Clubs, all of which cost
him a mint of money. Considered a rising man and not a bad fellow by his
friends--per contra greatly over-estimated and a bitter savage critic by
his enemies. Perhaps they are both right. I have a high standard of
excellence and am no respecter of persons, and I am afraid I show the
latter peculiarity rather too much. An internecine feud rages between
Owen and myself (more's the pity) partly on this account, partly from
other causes.

This is the account any third person would give you of what I am and of