conversationalists--round here for a pleasant evening's debate only to
see them become abstracted and monosyllabic directly you appear.'

'You can't blame me for that, Henry.'

'Yes, I do. You deliberately seek to interest them. I've seen you at
it. You spare no pains or powder to gain your object. Don't dare to
deny it.'

Chastened, I replied meekly: 'Dear Henry, I love my
fellow-creatures--if they haven't beards,' I added hastily. 'After
all, doesn't the Scripture command it?'

'But you don't love William.'

'The Scripture says nothing at all about William,' I replied decidedly.
'I--er--tolerate him. What is this you tell me about something having
happened to him?'

'He's growing peculiar.'

'_More_ peculiar, I suppose you mean?'

'His manner is erratic and changed. It isn't another invention,
because when he is inventing he is merely monosyllabic, with spasms of
muttering and an increased tendency to knock things over. Now he's
altogether different. It's the trend of his conversation that puzzles
me. He talks of love.'

'Love and William,' I remarked, 'are as incompatible as acids and