would have been worth something to have met so sensible a woman. An
author introduced to people who have read--or who say that they have
read--his books, feels always like a man taken for the first time to
be shown to his future wife's relations. They are very pleasant.
They try to put him at his ease. But he knows instinctively they are
disappointed with him. I remember, when a very young man, attending
a party at which a famous American humorist was the chief guest. I
was standing close behind a lady who was talking to her husband.

"He doesn't look a bit funny," said the lady.

"Great Scott!" answered her husband. "How did you expect him to
look? Did you think he would have a red nose and a patch over one
eye?"

"Oh, well, he might look funnier than that, anyhow," retorted the
lady, highly dissatisfied. "It isn't worth coming for."

We all know the story of the hostess who, leaning across the table
during the dessert, requested of the funny man that he would kindly
say something amusing soon, because the dear children were waiting to
go to bed. Children, I suppose, have no use for funny people who
don't choose to be funny. I once invited a friend down to my house
for a Saturday to Monday. He is an entertaining man, and before he
came I dilated on his powers of humour--somewhat foolishly perhaps--
in the presence of a certain youthful person who resides with me, and
who listens when she oughtn't to, and never when she ought. He
happened not to be in a humorous mood that evening. My young
relation, after dinner, climbed upon my knee. For quite five minutes
she sat silent. Then she whispered: