William is our friend. He drops in to see us when he likes, sits with
his feet on our mantelpiece, strews tobacco ash on the carpet, and
always tells me which of my hats are the most unbecoming, so you can
imagine what a close friend he is. Though he does not stick any closer
than a brother, he is equally as frank. He likes Henry and tolerates
me. For the rest of the women in the world he has a strong objection.
Not that he is a misogynist; but he always holds that a woman
interferes with a man's life. I often think that William would be all
the better for a little judicious feminine interference. He has,
however, now got beyond the stage of redemption.

[Illustration: Our Friend William.]

Home means nothing more to William than a comfortable ledge below the
mantelpiece where he can put his feet, a carpet which will not spoil
with tobacco ash, and a few tables and chairs scattered about just to
hold a good supply of old magazines and newspapers handy for lighting
his pipe. He wears those shaggy, unbrushed-looking clothes which all
good women abhor. Worst of all, he is constantly getting imbued with
new and fantastic ideas which cause him to live in a (quite
unnecessary) ferment of enthusiasm.

A good wife, now, would nip these ideas in the bud and make existence
infinitely more restful to him. Henry and he once got up a notion of
inventing a new drink which was to make them both everlastingly famous
and superlatively rich. They talked about it for hours and had even
got to designing the labels and bottles when I stepped in and told
Henry not to be a silly ass, that he was making a fool of himself, and
a few other sensible wifely things like that which finally brought him
to reason. William, however, having no one to bring him to reason,