This turning of the tables nonplussed me, and I didn't really know what to say, and so wisely said nothing, and the machine grew sharp in its clicking. “You men!” it cried. “You don't know how fearfully shallow you are. I can see through you in a minute.” “Well,” I said, modestly, “I suppose you can.” Then calling my feeble wit to my rescue, I added, “It's only natural, since I've made a spectacle of myself.” “Not you!” cried Xanthippe. “You haven't even made a monocle of yourself.” And here we both laughed, and the ice was broken. “What has become of Boswell?” I asked. “He's been sent to the ovens for ten days for libelling Shakespeare and Adam and Noah and old Jonah,” replied Xanthippe. “He printed an article alleged to have been written by Baron Munchausen, in which those four gentlemen were held up to ridicule and libelled grossly.” “And Munchausen?” I cried. “Oh, the Baron got out of it by confessing that he wrote the article,” replied the lady. “And as he swore to his confession the jury were convinced he was telling another one of his lies and acquitted him, so Boswell was sent up alone. That's why I am here. There isn't a man in all Hades that dared take charge of Boswell's paper--they're all so deadly afraid of the government, so I stepped in, and while Boswell is baking I'm attending to his editorial duties.” “But you spoke contemptuously of the Sunday newspapers awhile ago, Mrs. Socrates,” said I. “I know that,” said Xanthippe, “but I've fixed that. I get out the Sunday edition on Saturdays.” “Oh--I see. And you like it?” I queried. “First rate,” she replied. “I'm in love with the work. I almost wish poor old Bos had been sentenced for ten years. I have enough of the woman in me to love minding other people's business, and, as far as I can find out, that's about all journalism amounts to. Sewing societies aren't to be mentioned in the same day with a newspaper for scandal and gossip, and, besides, I'm an ardent advocate of men's rights--have been for centuries--and I've got my first chance now to promulgate a few of my ideas. I'm really a man in all my views of life--that's the inevitable end of an advanced woman who persists in following her 'newness' to its logical conclusion. Her habits of thought gradually come to be those of a man. Even I have a great deal more sympathy with Socrates than I used to have. I used to think I was the one that should be emancipated, but I'm really reaching that stage in my manhood where I begin to believe that he needs emancipation.” “Then you admit, do you,” I cried, with great glee, “that this new-woman business is all Tommy-rot?” “Not by a great deal,” snapped the machine. “Far from it. It's the salvation of the happy life. It is perfectly logical to say that the more manny a woman becomes, the more she is likely to sympathize with the troubles and trials which beset men.”