is a discord with B, and similarly B’s sequence is impossible in the hearing of A. As a matter of fact, a real conversation of three people is the most impossible thing in the world.  In real life one of the three always drops out and becomes a mere audience, or a mere partisan.  In real life you and A talk, and B pretends to be taking a share by interjecting interruptions, or one of the three talks a monologue.  And the more subtle your sympathy and the greater your restraint from self-assertion, the more incredible triple and quadruple conversation becomes.

I have observed that there is even nowadays a certain advance towards my views in this matter.  Men may not pick out antagonists, and argue to the general audience as once they did:  there is a tacit taboo of controversy, neither may you talk your “shop,” nor invite your antagonist to talk his.  There is also a growing feeling against extensive quotations or paraphrases from the newspapers.  Again, personalities, scandal, are, at least in theory, excluded.  This narrows the scope down to the “last new book,” “the last new play,” “impressions de voyage,” and even here it is felt that any very ironical or satirical remarks, anything unusual, in fact, may disconcert your adversary.  You ask:  Have you read the Wheels of Chance?  The answer is “Yes.”  “Do you like it?” “A little vulgar, I thought.”  And so forth.  Most of this is stereo.  It is akin to responses in church, a prescription, a formula.  And, following out this line of thought, I have had a vision of the twentieth century dinner.  At a distance it is very like the nineteenth century type; the same bright light, the same pleasant deglutition, the same hum of conversation; but, approaching, you discover each diner has a little drum-shaped body under his chin—­his phonograph.  So he dines and babbles at his ease.  In the smoking-room he substitutes his anecdote record.  I imagine, too, the suburban hostess meeting the new maiden:  “I hope, dear, you have brought a lot of conversation,” just as now she asks for the music.  For my own part, I must confess I find this dinner conversation particularly a bother.  If I could eat with my eye it would be different.

I lose a lot of friends through this conversational difficulty.  They think it is my dulness or my temper, when really it is only my refined mind, my subtlety of consideration.  It seems to me that when I go to see a man, I go to see him—­to enjoy his presence.  If he is my friend, the sight of him healthy and happy is enough for me.  I don’t want him to keep his vocal cords, and I don’t want to keep my own vocal cords, in incessant vibration all the time I am in his company.  If I go to see a man, it distracts me to have to talk and it distracts me to hear him talking.  I can’t imagine why one should not go and sit about in people’s rooms, without bothering them and without their bothering you to say all these stereotyped things.  Quietly go in, sit down, look at your man until you have seen him enough, and then go.  Why not?