“‘From pure cussedness, confound you! Ow-oh, I wish you would keep your attentions to yourself.’ “‘That’s the way of the world. A man is indiscreet, and when he has to pay the penalty, lays the blame on some one else. My duty is to remind you that you cannot abuse this body with impunity.’ “The hideous creature began to jump up and down on my foot. Maddened by the pain, I picked up a heavy dictionary lying near and hurled seventy thousand words bound in calf at him. The aim was too low and Webster fell over my foot. Then I fainted. The Gout had gone!” “Now that you have disposed of Dr. Gout, let us go back to our original subject—women,” I said, smiling. “A man who has had six wives ought to have some knowledge of the feminine character.” Just then John Heyward entered. The king turned to him. “Just in time, fool,” he said. “Answer our American friend: What is a woman?” “‘A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.’ That sounds like a before-treatment advertisement, but is really original with Kipling. As for myself, although a fool, I don’t attempt to designate a woman by a descriptive tag, as if she were a special brand of chocolates. To man, woman is a sphinx endowed with a voice. He never gets more than a telephonic acquaintance with her, and the woman always hangs up the receiver and monopolizes the transmitter.” “Listen to the words of a wise fool who wears a dunce cap for a crown,” approved Henry. “Right you are, Heyward, and one woman is very much like another.” “I beg to differ,” said the poet. “Women are different, not only in their baptismal labels, but in that some women have a husband and others have a cat. Women have often been compared to cats, but did you ever contrast cats and men? Thomas never throws his mother in the face of his wife. He keeps his own whiskers trimmed and stays home nights. He does not come back to the partner of his bosom at three A. M. with a diagonal gait and an asinine gayety, chewing the butt of a cigar and talking in a tongue that is as unsteady as his legs. Nor does Tommy slam the door in fourteen languages when Kitty asks how that blonde hair came on his coat. But we’re all human. If you’re hunting for a perfect woman, stop—she’s dead; if for a perfect man, you’re a fool. Elijahs are no longer translated without being prepared for the undertaker. Yet methinks that if one could forget other folks’ mistakes as easily as one’s own, there would be less scandal.” He turned to Catharine Parr. “One thing has always puzzled me. Why is it that women prefer to be old men’s darlings, that you enjoy being clouds in the sunset’s glow rather than in the noontide glory?” “The setting sun always gives a golden lining to the clouds it embraces, but to drop the figurative—we are soaring rather high—and come down to earth, women marry old men so that they may soon become widows.” Henry nervously tried to adjust an imaginary crown that weighed heavily on his head.