The last time he mentioned this I said: “Do you ever go to stay with anyone without hiding at the top of the house and pretending you are dead for nine-tenths of the day?” He said no, but that was different--when you had rooms of your own. I replied: “Do you know what you would do? You would open the door of our sitting-room as you came upstairs and say: ‘Why not come in and have a chat and a smoke?’ The poor deluded dears would come in, you would be as pleased as Punch for ten minutes and then begin to fidget.” “Oh, but then they would go,” said James, “and besides I like it for much longer than that.” “You don’t, ten minutes is the outside limit. I have timed you often when the Van Diemans have been here: in ten minutes you begin to wind up your watch and ask where they are going to spend Christmas.” “Oh, do I?” said James. “Yes, and another thing, you don’t like fishing. It is the idea of fishing that you like. When it comes to the point you go because Van Dieman is such a good chap, but you hate the wet grass, and the flies, and not catching anything.” “What a sordid mind for detail you have,” he said; “there is no imagination about you.” “An ounce of experience is worth two pounds of imagination,” I answered. We took our holiday in an altogether different way, and James was appalled when the Van Diemans told him how they had spent their time. He said it was inconceivable how people could enjoy that sort of thing. When I pointed out that it was entirely owing to my foresight and intelligence that we had not been there, he said shamelessly that it would have been quite different if we had gone; it was just an accident that they had behaved in accordance with their temperaments and their invariable habit. Women, on the other hand, are so experienced that I have begun to think they remember not only their childhood but also their previous incarnations. From what I know of both sexes it seems probable that Adam spat out his piece of apple behind the nearest fig-tree, while Eve munched hers conscientiously to the end and got some good out of it. I used to consult Mrs. Beehive in the early days about all sorts of domestic matters, but finally I gave it up because she was so depressing. She said so often: “It’s no good, dear. It’s a nice idea, I know, but you will find it will rot with the sun,” and it always did, in spite of Mr. Beehive saying that it was sure to do beautifully, and that the reason why theirs had been a failure was the unusual dampness of the year; it was not likely to occur again.