“Your church was instituted too late to be binding on me,” she said, her nose becoming an acute retrousse. “The word obey didn’t cut any figure in our matrimonial contract.” “If I once chopped off your head, as the historians say, you’ve snapped mine off since,” grumbled his hen-pecked Majesty. “My head was divorced from my shoulders. I should have preferred the courts of law to courting the axe.” “There! don’t cry or you will cause the carpet to mildew. My dear, never try to salt down a man’s affections with briny tears.” A queenly woman entered the room. I arose to greet her. The king’s fat interfered with his gallantry; besides, the woman was his wife, which explains while it does not justify. “My sister and my wife,” said Henry, presenting me to Catharine of Arragon. “It’s the only case on record where a woman, after promising to be a man’s sister, became his wife. Do you wonder that I began to feel quite rich in family relations? Although I murdered my sister-in-law, I left it to the punsters to murder the mothers-in-law who came after me.” “The historians say that my fall from kingly favor was a matter of conscience,” mused Her Grace. “Didn’t the still small voice make itself heard when you severed the bonds of matrimony with your little hatchet?” “Not at all, Catharine. I left my conscience on the executioner’s block to flirt with yours!” “And married again!” “Of course. Matrimony always had much attraction for me, although I realize that a man had better fall into the sea than fall in love and marry. A corpse devoured by crabs is no less harrowing than the spectacle of a man devoured by love, and it is better to multiply crabs than to multiply sinners and fools. Matrimony is a foretaste of purgatory to which no man should be called upon to submit before death.” “No wonder you got dyspepsia and gout from indulging your taste.” “There you are again, Anne, throwing ancient history in my teeth. Did you ever hear how I got rid of the gout?” I shook my head. “Ah, thank goodness, one incident of my life has escaped the novelists. Lucifer is compiling a mammoth work ‘Every Man His Own Historian’ to which we are all contributing. It promises to to be one of the ‘six best sellers.’ Permit me to read a chapter from my autobiography: “I must have fallen asleep upon my throne. I dreamed that a great iron safe had fallen upon my feet and awoke to find a hideous-looking creature seated complacently upon my bandaged foot. I groaned and tried to shake him off, but he still clung there and the weight of his body seemed to be pushing red-hot needles into the swollen flesh. “He took off his cap with a courtly bow. “‘Allow me to introduce myself as Mr. Gout, M. D.,’ he said. “‘What! you are Mr. Gout, who is responsible for my sufferings and you actually have the impudence to come here! Why, oh my foot!’ “‘Do you know why I am so attentive to you?’