istake. I complimented,
from the mere desire of saying something agreeable, and finding my
choice of praiseworthy qualities limited, an elderly, garrulous
acquaintance on his geniality, on an evening when I had writhed
uneasily under a steady downpour of talk. I have bitterly rued my
insincerity. Not only have I received innumerable invitations from the
man whom the Americans would call my complimentee, but when I am in his
company I see him making heroic attempts to make his conversation
practically continuous. How often since that day have I sympathised
with St James in his eloquent description of the deadly and poisonous
power of the tongue! A bore is not, as is often believed, a merely
selfish and uninteresting person. He is often a man who labours
conscientiously and faithfully at an accomplishment, the exercise of
which has become pleasurable to him. And thus a bore is the hardest of
all people to convert, because he is, as a rule, conscious of virtue
and beneficence.

On the whole, it is better not to disturb the amiable delusions of our
fellow-men, unless we are certain that we can improve them. To break
the spring of happiness in a virtuous bore is a serious responsibility.
It is better, perhaps, both in matters of work and in matters of social
life, to encourage our friends to believe in themselves. We must not,
of course, encourage them in vicious and hurtful enjoyment, and there
are, of course, bores whose tediousness is not only not harmless, but a
positively noxious and injurious quality. There are bores who have but
to lay a finger upon a subject of universal or special interest, to
make one feel that under no circumstances will one ever be able to
allow one's thoughts to dwell on the subject again; and such a person
should be, as far as possible, isolated from human intercourse, like a
sufferer from a contagious malady. But this extremity of noxiousness
is rare. And it may be said that, as a rule, one does more to increase
happiness by a due amount of recognition and praise, even when one is
recognising rather the spirit of a performance than the actual result;
and such a course of action has the additional advantage of making one
into a person who is eagerly welcomed and sought after in all kinds of
society.

XXIII

The Abbey

The fresh wind blew cheerily as we raced, my friend and I, across a
long stretch of rich fen-land. The sunlight, falling somewhat dimly
through a golden h