“I think I know the man you mean,” said the Philosopher. “I had forgotten his name.” “I thought it possible you might have met him,” I replied. “Well, my cousin Edith was arranging a dinner-party the other day, and, as usual, she did me the honour to ask my advice. Generally speaking, I do not give advice nowadays. As a very young man I was generous with it. I have since come to the conclusion that responsibility for my own muddles and mistakes is sufficient. However, I make an exception in Edith’s case, knowing that never by any chance will she follow it.” “Speaking of editors,” said the Philosopher, “Bates told me at the club the other night that he had given up writing the ‘Answers to Correspondents’ personally, since discovery of the fact that he had been discussing at some length the attractive topic, ‘Duties of a Father,’ with his own wife, who is somewhat of a humorist.” “There was the wife of a clergyman my mother used to tell of,” said the Woman of the World, “who kept copies of her husband’s sermons. She would read him extracts from them in bed, in place of curtain lectures. She explained it saved her trouble. Everything she felt she wanted to say to him he had said himself so much more forcibly.” “The argument always appears to me weak,” said the Philosopher. “If only the perfect may preach, our pulpits would remain empty. Am I to ignore the peace that slips into my soul when perusing the Psalms, to deny myself all benefit from the wisdom of the Proverbs, because neither David nor Solomon was a worthy casket of the jewels that God had placed in them? Is a temperance lecturer never to quote the self-reproaches of poor Cassio because Master Will Shakespeare, there is evidence to prove, was a gentleman, alas! much too fond of the bottle? The man that beats the drum may be himself a coward. It is the drum that is the important thing to us, not the drummer.” “Of all my friends,” said the Woman of the World, “the one who has the most trouble with her servants is poor Jane Meredith.” “I am exceedingly sorry to hear it,” observed the Philosopher, after a slight pause. “But forgive me, I really do not see—” “I beg your pardon,” answered the Woman of the World. “I thought everybody knew ‘Jane Meredith.’ She writes ‘The Perfect Home’ column for _The Woman’s World_.” “It will always remain a riddle, one supposes,” said the Minor Poet. “Which is the real ego—I, the author of ‘The Simple Life,’ fourteenth edition, three and sixpence net—” “Don’t,” pleaded the Old Maid, with a smile; “please don’t.” “Don’t what?” demanded the Minor Poet. “Don’t ridicule it—make fun of it, even though it may happen to be your own. There are parts of it I know by heart. I say them over to myself when— Don’t spoil it for me.” The Old Maid laughed, but nervously.