“Hullo, old chap, how did it come out?” The reply was as great a surprise as I have yet had, for it was not Boswell, Jim Boswell, who answered my question. IV. A CHAT WITH XANTHIPPE The machine stopped its clicking the moment I spoke, and the words, “Hullo, old chap!” were no sooner uttered than my face grew red as a carnation pink. I felt as if I had committed some dreadful faux-pas, and instead of gazing steadfastly into the vacant chair, as I had been wont to do in my conversation with Boswell, my eyes fell, as though the invisible occupant of the chair were regarding me with a look of indignant scorn. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I should think you might,” returned the types. “Hullo, old chap! is no way to address a woman you've never had the honor of meeting, even if she is of the most advanced sort. No amount of newness in a woman gives a man the right to be disrespectful to her.” “I didn't know,” I explained. “Really, miss, I--” “Madame,” interrupted the machine, “not miss. I am a married woman, sir, which makes of your rudeness an even more reprehensible act. It is well enough to affect a good-fellowship with young unmarried females, but when you attempt to be flippant with a married woman--” “But I didn't know, I tell you,” I appealed. “How should I? I supposed it was Boswell I was talking to, and he and I have become very good friends.” “Humph!” said the machine. “You're a chum of Boswell's, eh?” “Well, not exactly a chum, but--” I began. “But you go with him?” interrupted the lady. “To an extent, yes,” I confessed. “And does he GO with you?” was the query. “If he does, permit me to depart at once. I should not feel quite in my element in a house where the editor of a Sunday newspaper was an attractive guest. If you like that sort of thing, your tastes--” “I do not, madame,” I replied, quickly. “I prefer the opium habit to the Sunday-newspaper habit, and if I thought Boswell was merely a purveyor of what is known as Sunday literature, which depends on the goodness of the day to offset its shortcomings, I should forbid him the house.” A distinct sigh of relief emanated from the chair. “Then I may remain,” was the remark rapidly clicked off on the machine. “I am glad,” said I. “And may I ask whom I have the honor of addressing?” “Certainly,” was the immediate response. “My name is Socrates, nee Xanthippe.”