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,
goes on day by day becoming more of a lunatic. I could never
understand why there is such a close bond between him and Henry, unless
it is because they enjoy arguing together. Henry, being a Scotsman,
likes argument; and William, being an Irishman, likes hearing his own
voice. Thus they seldom got bored with each other.

The time we did get bored with William was when he turned inventor. It
came rather as a surprise to us; and when he began to be abstracted,
profoundly meditative, almost sullen, with an apparent desire to be
alone, we thought at first that it was the onset of hydrophobia. In
fact, we looked it up on the back of the dog-licence to make sure.

William's remarks next became irrelevant. For example, after being
wrapped in silence for over half an hour, he suddenly flung out the
question, 'How many people do you know who possess a trousers-press?

Faced with the problem, I confessed I could not connect a single
acquaintance with a trousers-press. 'Henry hasn't got one,' I admitt