At the other side of the room is a prude who plays at importance, to whom one could bring one's self to say that she is pretty, because she is pretty, though she has a blemish or two upon her face. _Item_, she is more spiteful, more conceited, and more silly than a goose. _Item_, she insists on having wit. _Item_, you have to persuade her that you believe she has more of it than anybody else in the world. _Item_, she knows nothing, and she has a turn for settling everything out of hand. _Item_, you must applaud her decisions with feet and hands, jump for joy, and scream with admiration:--"How fine that is, how delicate, well said, subtly seen, singularly felt! Where do women get that? Without study, by mere force of instinct, and pure light of nature! That is really like a miracle! And then they want us to believe that experience, study, reflection, education, have anything to do with the matter!..." And other fooleries to match, and tears and tears of joy; ten times a day to kneel down, one knee bent in front of the other, the other leg drawn back, the arms extended towards the goddess, to seek one's desire in her eyes, to hang on her lips, to wait for her command, and then start off like a flash of lightning. Where is the man who would subject himself to play such a part, if it is not the wretch, who finds there two or three times a week the wherewithal to still the tribulation of his inner parts? _I._--I should never have thought you were so fastidious. _He._--I am not. In the beginning I watched the others, and I did as they did, even rather better, because I am more frankly impudent, a better comedian, hungrier, and better off for lungs. I descend apparently in a direct line from the famous Stentor.... [And to give me a just idea of the force of his organ, he set off laughing, with violence enough to break the windows of the coffee-house, and to interrupt the chess-players.] _I._--But what is the good of this talent? _He._--You cannot guess? _I._--No; I am rather slow.