Few experiences are more distressing to me than being present when a person is checked at the very climax of a tale because of some paltry exaggeration that he or she has made in the heat of the moment. Husbands and wives are always at such tricks, for it very often happens that a genial, expansive, imaginative person is united to one who is somewhat cold, literal-minded, devoid of fancy. A lady, finishing a tale and warming to the task, will cry: ‘No sooner had I opened the door than about fifteen people rushed out--.’ ‘No, my dear, you exaggerate,’ her husband will interrupt, ‘there were only three people there; I counted them.’ And if they are among friends, he will probably turn round and add: ‘Mary will exaggerate, you know; it’s quite a habit of hers.’ The tale then comes to a lame finish, and is indeed quite spoilt. We have been led, as it were, to expect fifteen people; the whole progress of the narrative demanded them; and then at the very moment that we are gratified by their appearance on the scene, four-fifths of them are whisked away and we have to be content with a paltry three merely to satisfy some busybody’s illtimed demand for accuracy. Accuracy, exact statements, hard facts, are very well; they have their uses in the world; but a man must not allow his passion for them to carry him to dangerous lengths, or he will not only give himself a creeping style but will try to spoil every tale that comes his way; such a one will soon be unfit for decent society and will have to take to writing to the newspapers--a vile end. Such literal-minded fellows, without imagination, without any sense of art, are the ruin of good talk; let them do the world’s work in laboratories and counting-houses, but when they are abroad let them keep quiet, or some of us will put them into monstrously exaggerated, scandalous tales, which will be doubly vexatious to them.