“Dulness,” pursued the Philosopher, “is the only unforgivable sin. Now you cannot say I am dull!”
She peeped at him from under the brim of her hat,—an answer was on her lips, but she would not utter it.
“I amuse you,” he went on. “I make you laugh! That is a great thing! Isn’t it?”
She nodded, smilingly.
“I have,” went on the Philosopher, complacently, “an original turn of mind. I say things in an original manner. People quote my remarks as being new and funny. It’s a great help in social life to have a man among your friends who may be relied upon to speak in a way which no one else can imitate. It ‘lifts’ conversation. Don’t you agree with me?”
Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Well, I’m not sure!” she said. “There are some clever men who can be duller than very stupid ones,—though of course they always think themselves amusing. They tell the same stories over and over again—the same old jokes and witticisms,—and it is very difficult to listen to, them patiently and smile as if you were pleased, when really you’re bored!”
He nodded his head.
“True!—very true! I have met many such men. I always avoid them when I can. But the moral of the whole thing is that one should know as few people as possible and never keep up with those few longer than a month or six weeks.”
She gave him an astonished look.