"I want to introduce you to a Mrs. Jones," he whispers. "Clever
woman. Wrote a book two years ago. Forget the name of it.
Something about twins. Keep away from sausages. Father ran a pork
shop in the Borough. Husband on the Stock Exchange. Keep off coke.
Unpleasantness about a company. You'll get on best by sticking to
the book. Lot in it about platonic friendship. Don't seem to be
looking too closely at her. Has a slight squint she tries to hide."

By this time we have reached the lady, and he introduces me as a
friend of his who is simply dying to know her.

"Wants to talk about your book," he explains. "Disagrees with you
entirely on the subject of platonic friendship. Sure you'll be able
to convince him."

It saves us both a deal of trouble. I start at once on platonic
friendship, and ask her questions about twins, avoiding sausages and
coke. She thinks me an unusually interesting man, and I am less
bored than otherwise I might be.

I have sometimes thought it would be a serviceable device if, in
Society, we all of us wore a neat card--pinned, say, upon our back--
setting forth such information as was necessary; our name legibly
written, and how to be pronounced; our age (not necessarily in good
faith, but for purposes of conversation. Once I seriously hurt a
German lady by demanding of her information about the Franco-German
war. She looked to me as if she could not object to being taken for
forty. It turned out she was thirty-seven. Had I not been an
Englishman I might have had to fight a duel); our religious and
political beliefs; together with a list of the subjects we were most