“Certainly I do!” replied the red-faced man. “Now, here is a case in point,” unfolding a newspaper-cutting: “let me read you this letter from a teetotaler. _To the Editor. Sir, I was once a moderate drinker, and knew a man who drank to excess. I went to him. ‘Give up this drink,’ I said. ‘It will ruin your health!’ ‘You drink,’ he said: ‘why shouldn’t I?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I know when to leave off.’ He turned away from me. ‘You drink in your way,’ he said: ‘let me drink in mine. Be off!’ Then I saw that, to do any good with him, I must forswear drink. From that hour I haven’t touched a drop!_” “There! What do you say to _that_?” He looked round triumphantly, while the cutting was handed round for inspection. “How very curious!” exclaimed Arthur, when it had reached him. “Did you happen to see a letter, last week, about early rising? It was strangely like this one.” The red-faced man’s curiosity was roused. “Where did it appear?” he asked. “Let me read it to you,” said Arthur. He took some papers from his pocket, opened one of them, and read as follows. “_To the Editor. Sir, I was once a moderate sleeper, and knew a man who slept to excess. I pleaded with him. ‘Give up this lying in bed,’ I said, ‘It will ruin your health!’ ‘You go to bed,’ he said: ‘why shouldn’t I?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I know when to get up in the morning.’ He turned away from me. ‘You sleep in your way,’ he said: ‘let me sleep in mine. Be off!’ Then I saw that to do any good with him, I must forswear sleep. From that hour I haven’t been to bed!_” Arthur folded and pocketed his paper, and passed on the newspaper-cutting. None of us dared to laugh, the red-faced man was evidently so angry. “Your parallel doesn’t run on all fours!” he snarled. “_Moderate_ drinkers never do so!” Arthur quietly replied. Even the stern old lady laughed at this. “But it needs many other things to make a _perfect_ dinner!” said Lady Muriel, evidently anxious to change the subject. “Mein Herr! What is _your_ idea of a perfect dinner-party?” The old man looked round smilingly, and his gigantic spectacles seemed more gigantic than ever. “A _perfect_ dinner-party?” he repeated. “First, it must be presided over by our present hostess!” “That, of _course_!” she gaily interposed. “But what _else_, Mein Herr?” “I can but tell you what I have seen,” said Mein Herr, “in mine own—in the country I have traveled in.” He paused for a full minute, and gazed steadily at the ceiling—with so dreamy an expression on his face, that I feared he was going off into a reverie, which seemed to be his normal state. However, after a minute, he suddenly began again. “That which chiefly causes the failure of a dinner-party, is the running-short—not of meat, nor yet of drink, but of _conversation_.” “In an _English_ dinner-party,” I remarked, “I have never known _small-talk_ run short!”