He does not like women--thinks they are of no use in the world, save to set
the tea a-drawing. Says there was no trouble in Paradise till a female came
there, and that ever since Adam lost the rib woman has been to man a bad
pain in the side. He thinks that Dr. Butterfield, who sits opposite him at
the tea-table, is something of a hypocrite, and asks him all sorts of
puzzling questions. The fact is, it is vinegar-cruet against sugar-bowl in
perpetual controversy. I do not blame Givemfits as much as many do. His
digestion is poor. The chills and fever enlarged his spleen. He has
frequent attacks of neuralgia. Once a week he has the sick headache. His
liver is out of order. He has twinges of rheumatism. Nothing he ever takes
agrees with him but tea, and that doesn't. He has had a good deal of trial,
and the thunder of trouble has soured the milk of human kindness. When he
gets criticising Dr. Butterfield's sermons and books, I have sometimes to
pretend that I hear somebody at the front door, so that I can go out in the
hall and have an uproarious laugh without being indecorous. It is one of
the great amusements of my life to have on opposite sides of my tea-table
Dr. Butterfield and Mr. Givemfits.

But we have many others who come to our tea-table: Miss Smiley, who often
runs in about six o'clock. All sweetness is Miss Smiley. She seems to like
everybody, and everybody seems to like her. Also Miss Stinger, sharp as a
hornet, prides herself on saying things that cut; dislikes men; cannot bear
the sight of a pair of boots; loathes a shaving apparatus; thinks Eve would
have shown better capacity for housekeeping if she had, the first time she
used her broom, swept Adam out of Paradise. Besides these ladies, many
good, bright, useful and sensible people of all kinds. In a few days we
shall invite a group of them to tea, and you shall hear some of their
discussions of men and books and things. We shall order a canister of the
best Young Hyson, pull out the extension-table, hang on the kettle, stir