“‘What! you are Mr. Gout, who is responsible for my sufferings and you actually have the impudence to come here! Why, oh my foot!’
“‘Do you know why I am so attentive to you?’
“‘From pure cussedness, confound you! Ow-oh, I wish you would keep your attentions to yourself.’
“‘That’s the way of the world. A man is indiscreet, and when he has to pay the penalty, lays the blame on some one else. My duty is to remind you that you cannot abuse this body with impunity.’
“The hideous creature began to jump up and down on my foot. Maddened by the pain, I picked up a heavy dictionary lying near and hurled seventy thousand words bound in calf at him. The aim was too low and Webster fell over my foot. Then I fainted. The Gout had gone!”
“Now that you have disposed of Dr. Gout, let us go back to our original subject—women,” I said, smiling. “A man who has had six wives ought to have some knowledge of the feminine character.”
Just then John Heyward entered. The king turned to him.
“Just in time, fool,” he said. “Answer our American friend: What is a woman?”
“‘A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.’ That sounds like a before-treatment advertisement, but is really original with Kipling. As for myself, although a fool, I don’t attempt to designate a woman by a descriptive tag, as if she were a special brand of chocolates. To man, woman is a sphinx endowed with a voice. He never gets more than a telephonic acquaintance with her, and the woman always hangs up the receiver and monopolizes the transmitter.”
“Listen to the words of a wise fool who wears a dunce cap for a crown,” approved Henry. “Right you are, Heyward, and one woman is very much like another.”