A few days after we had sent out the cards, I met my friend O'Donovan, late member for Blackthorn. He was an Irishman by birth and profession, but the recent General Election had thrown him out of work. The promise of his boyhood and of his successful career at Trinity College was great, but in later years he began to manifest grave symptoms of genius. I have heard whispers that it was in the family, though he kept it from his wife. Possibly I ought not to have sent him a card and have taken the opportunity of dropping his acquaintance. But Geraldine argued that he was not dangerous, and that we ought to be kind to him just after he had come out of Parliament. O'Donovan was in a rage. [Illustration: "O'DONOVAN WAS IN A RAGE."] "I never thought it of you!" he said angrily, when I asked him how he was. He had a good Irish accent, but he only used it when addressing his constituents. "Never thought what?" I enquired in amazement. "That you would treat your friends so shabbily." "Wh-what, didn't you g-get a card?" I stammered. "I'm sure the wife--" "Don't be a fool!" he interrupted. "Of course I got a card. That's what I complain of." I stared at him blankly. The social experiences resulting from my marriage had convinced me that it was impossible to avoid giving offence. I had no reason to be surprised, but I was. "What right have you to move and put all your friends to trouble?" he enquired savagely. "I have put myself to trouble," I said, "but I fail to see how I have taxed _your_ friendship." "No, of course not," he growled. "I didn't expect you to see. You're just as inconsiderate as everybody else. Don't you think I had enough trouble to commit to memory '109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras,' without being unexpectedly set to study '21, Victoria Flats--?'" "22, Albert Flats," I interrupted mildly. "There you are!" he snarled. "You see already how it harasses my poor brain. I shall never remember it." "Oh yes, you will," I said deprecatingly. "It is much easier than the old address. Listen here! '22, Albert Flats, Victoria Square, Westminster.' 22--a symmetrical number, the first double even number; the first is two, the second is two, too, and the whole is two, two, too--quite æsthetical, you know. Then all the rest is royal--Albert, Albert the Good, see. Victoria--the Queen. Westminster--Westminster Palace. And the other words--geometrical terms, Flat, Square. Why, there never was such an easy address since the days of Adam before he moved out of Eden," I concluded enthusiastically. [Illustration: "'THERE NEVER WAS SUCH AN EASY ADDRESS.'"]