This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon recovering from which you explain that somebody rang you up. “_Who_ rang you up?” she asks. “I don’t know.” “I wish you did,” she observes. Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to your chair. The instant you are seated the bell clangs again; and you fly up and demand to know what the thunder they want, and who the thunder they are. “Don’t speak so loud, we can’t hear you. What do you want?” is the answer. “I don’t want anything. What do you want? Why do you ring me up, and then not answer me? Do leave me alone, if you can!” “We can’t get Hong Kongs at seventy-four.” “Well, I don’t care if you can’t.” “Would you like Zulus?” “What are you talking about?” you reply; “I don’t know what you mean.” “Would you like Zulus—Zulus at seventy-three and a half?” “I wouldn’t have ’em at six a penny. What are you talking about?” “Hong Kongs—we can’t get them at seventy-four. Oh, half-a-minute” (the half-a-minute passes). “Are you there?” “Yes, but you are talking to the wrong man.” “We can get you Hong Kongs at seventy-four and seven-eights.” “Bother Hong Kongs, and you too. I tell you, you are talking to the wrong man. I’ve told you once.” “Once what?” “Why, that I am the wrong man—I mean that you are talking to the wrong man.” “Who are you?” “Eight-one-nine, Jones.” “Oh, aren’t you one-nine-eight?” “No.” “Oh, good-bye.” “Good-bye.” How can a man after that sit down and write pleasantly of the European crisis? And, if it were needed, herein lies another indictment against the telephone. I was engaged in an argument, which, if not in itself serious, was at least concerned with a serious enough subject, the unsatisfactory nature of human riches; and from that highly moral discussion have I been lured, by the accidental sight of the word “telephone,” into the writing of matter which can have the effect only of exciting to frenzy all critics of the New Humour into whose hands, for their sins, this book may come. Let me forget my transgression and return to my sermon, or rather to the sermon of my millionaire acquaintance. It was one day after dinner, we sat together in his magnificently furnished dining-room. We had lighted our cigars at the silver lamp. The butler had withdrawn. “These cigars we are smoking,” my friend suddenly remarked, _à propos_ apparently of nothing, “they cost me five shillings apiece, taking them by the thousand.” “I can quite believe it,” I answered; “they are worth it.” “Yes, to you,” he replied, almost savagely. “What do you usually pay for your cigars?”