in advising him about his colds, and so on, that is because any man staying in the house likes to be given ammoniated quinine when he needs it. But I never kissed him unless I wanted to, nor allowed myself to dwell on the involuntary tie between us. _CHAPTER XXI_: GENIUS When Mrs. Van Dieman was describing the neighbourhood to me she mentioned, among other people, a Mr. Figgins who wrote books. She said that she would like to get to know him better, but she did not think he liked her, as she was not clever enough. “He probably thinks you do not like him because he is not rich enough,” I said. “Oh, but what utter nonsense,” she protested. “When a man has an intellect like that he can’t suppose one considers his money.” “There you are,” I replied, “that is exactly what I have been saying. He probably says to himself, ‘When a woman has a purse like that she can’t suppose one considers her brains.’ He must dislike you on other grounds if he does at all; perhaps it is your politics, or the fact that your house faces north.” “You see, he is so interesting,” pursued Mrs. Van Dieman. “I should love to know him better, but I don’t know what to talk about, I read so little.” “So does Mr. Figgins, probably,” I said. “But, anyhow, if you are interested in him, talk about that; he will like it far better than anything else--unless you talk about yourself. If you were as candid with him as you are with me, he would think about nothing else for weeks, you would open his eyes such a lot.” “Anyhow,” I began again presently, “when you meet your baker out at dinner do you read up ‘Bread’ in the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica’ first?” “We certainly do seem to get on the subject of bread whenever we meet,” she said. “Perhaps that is why I am not interested in him.” “According to you, the baker’s friends, when they ask him to their houses, would think it complimentary to powder their hair, and embroider their dresses with currants. As for your Mr. Figgins, how could the poor man write books if there were nothing but books to write about?” By and by, when Mrs. Van Dieman had plucked up courage and invited most of us to an embarrassing tea-party to meet the man of letters, I found that Mrs. Figgins was a friend of my childhood, and we took up our relation to one another just where we had left it. It matured rapidly, and I became very fond of both of them. Their house was often full of people whom Mrs. Van Dieman classified according to the nature of their public life. This habit of classification, which is the county method of making a social order out of the chaos of individual taste, is very infectious. I began to look at geniuses as a class, and to think I noticed certain stripes and spots in their characters which marked them as belonging to one family, however much they differed in other ways. I presented an ode on the subject to the Figginses, and watched them as they read it in turn: