“No man except a farm labourer ought to marry,” I heard Mr. Figgins say as I went off again. “What I want is a dear old toothless, very efficient housekeeper, and a mistress exquisitely beautiful, talented, sympathetic----” We had a great discussion that night at dinner. Several geniuses and their wives were there, and civil war broke out. The geniuses’ complaints were trivial, but apparently rankled deeply. They all said nearly the same thing: that their wives wanted too much, and prevented them from getting on with their work, to which the wives retorted that they also wanted to get on with their work, but it was not possible, because they were always being called off to listen to something, or to pack bags, or remove a spider from the ceiling. Then if they stayed for a few minutes’ chat, they were accused of being in the way, and why wasn’t lunch ready? and why couldn’t they see that the doors didn’t bang upstairs? If they asked for love they were given a manuscript as indigestible as a stone, but, on the other hand, when inspiration had run out and love was required (they being busy at the time doing something else) they were told that women were practical animals and had no ideals; that polygamy was the only feasible arrangement in domestic life, and would they kindly put on more coal, and make that cheque last for six months. The geniuses maintained that we all live much too elaborately. A simple, well-cooked fowl, done to a turn at any minute of the day, was quite enough for anyone; a perfectly proportioned room ascetically bare, save for a few necessary objects of priceless value, was enough to content them. A village girl with a graceful figure and sun-kissed complexion should maintain the room in that spotless order which is essential to a quiet mind. The wife should direct everything, do nothing, be always occupied, always at hand and scarcely ever present. The children should have perfect freedom, intelligence, health, education, no lessons, be full of gaiety and make no noise, be one with their parents at heart, never present (like the wife) for more than a few minutes at a time, occupied in useful and beautiful handicrafts, and make no litter about the house. This is what I gathered from notes made at the time. From what I understand of the allegations brought against geniuses by their wives, there was less detailed complaint and more profound disappointment. To begin with, the work did not pay; the world did not appreciate it, or if it did, it appreciated the wrong bits--the ones that George himself cared least about. Secondly, they worked too hard, and then got so dreadfully depressed; they never seemed able to throw down their work and come out for a little bit of fun in the middle of a sentence. And when something really serious, like the bailiffs, happened, one could not get them to attend. Mrs. Malloray told us that her husband got so interested in talking to the men about Australia that he never noticed