Those middle-aged men were much in earnest. There were several lawyers, a doctor or two, our Professor, ministers, and a few non-professional men, like Father. One lawyer, a hunchback, was very eloquent. His smooth, melodious voice and engaging manner made one forget his deformity. There was a “gentleman farmer,” too, a liberally educated bachelor, very diffident, with halting speech. They had great respect for his learning. How easily he coloured up on occasion! I think he never felt quite so much at ease when we girls were present, but he was very deferential to us. There were pompous men, testy men, humorous men, taciturn men--in fact, as I recall the little club, I see it was composed of very varied types; and therein, I suppose, lay a large part of the interest for me, as I was always interested in studying people. Often I had but little understanding of the questions at issue, but even when these did not concern me, I liked to follow the arguments; liked to see them pick one another up; liked the mental activity of it all, just as when, in later years, my life-work calling me much in the court room, I have enjoyed listening to the trial of even an indifferent case. To hear the pros and cons, to see the intricate, many-faceted presentation of the truth, gives me the same kind of enjoyment I get from Browning’s “Ring and the Book.” Then, too, I was proud of Father’s part in it all, his reasoning, so clear and forcible, his humour so compelling, his enthusiasm so contagious! But he was always partisan; whatever he took up, he espoused _con amore_. I come honestly by my enthusiasms. At each meeting they appointed a member to report errors of grammar and pronunciation. Father’s critical bent earned him the nickname, “The Critic.” In time the schoolgirls dubbed me “Critic Junior”--an epithet justly bestowed, I confess--it has always been easy for me to pick flaws--to criticize myself relentlessly, as well as others.