“Oh, Reggie fills his place,” was the reply. And Mrs. Billy gazed about the room. “You see all these women?” she said. “Take them in the morning and put half a dozen of them together in one room; they all hate each other like poison, and there are no men around, and there is nothing to do; and how are you to keep them from quarrelling?”
“Is that Reggie's role?” asked the other.
“Precisely. He sees a spark fly, and he jumps up and cracks a joke. It doesn't make any difference what he does—I've known him to crow like a rooster, or stumble over his own feet—anything to raise a laugh.”
“Aren't you afraid these epigrams may reach your victim?” asked Montague, with a smile.
“That is what they are intended to do,” was the reply.
“I judge you have not many enemies,” added Mrs. Billy, after a pause.
“No especial ones,” said he.
“Well,” said she, “you should cultivate some. Enemies are the spice of life. I mean it, really,” she declared, as she saw him smile.
“I had never thought of it,” said he.
“Have you never known what it is to get into a really good fight? You see, you are conventional, and you don't like to acknowledge it. But what is there that wakes one up more than a good, vigorous hatred? Some day you will realise it—the chief zest in life is to go after somebody who hates you, and to get him down and see him squirm.”