“Myself, I should hate a man who agreed with me,” said the Girton Girl.

“My dear,” replied the Woman of the World, “I don’t think any would.”

“Why not?” demanded the Girton Girl.

“I was thinking more of you, dear,” replied the Woman of the World.

“I am glad you all concur with me,” murmured the Minor Poet.  “I have always myself regarded the Devil’s Advocate as the most useful officer in the Court of Truth.”

“I remember being present one evening,” I observed, “at a dinner-party where an eminent judge met an equally eminent K. C.; whose client the judge that very afternoon had condemned to be hanged.  ‘It is always a satisfaction,’ remarked to him genially the judge, ’condemning any prisoner defended by you.  One feels so absolutely certain he was guilty.’  The K. C. responded that he should always remember the judge’s words with pride.”

“Who was it,” asked the Philosopher, “who said:  ’Before you can attack a lie, you must strip it of its truth’?”

“It sounds like Emerson,” I ventured.

“Very possibly,” assented the Philosopher; “very possibly not.  There is much in reputation.  Most poetry gets attributed to Shakespeare.”

“I entered a certain drawing-room about a week ago,” I said. “’We were just speaking about you,’ exclaimed my hostess.  ’Is not this yours?’ She pointed to an article in a certain magazine lying open on the table.  ‘No,’ I replied; ’one or two people have asked me that same question.  It seems to me rather an absurd article,’ I added.  ‘I cannot say I thought very much of it,’ agreed my hostess.”

“I can’t help it,” said the Old Maid.  “I shall always dislike a girl who deliberately sells herself for money.”

“But what else is there to sell herself for?” asked the Minor Poet.

“She should not sell herself at all,” retorted the Old Maid, with warmth.  “She should give herself, for love.”

“Are we not in danger of drifting into a difference of opinion concerning the meaning of words merely?” replied the Minor Poet.  “We have all of us, I suppose, heard the story of the Jew clothier remonstrated with by the Rabbi for doing business on the Sabbath.  ‘Doing bithness!’ retorted the accused with indignation; ’you call thelling a thuit like that for eighteen shillings doing bithness!  By, ith’s tharity!’ This ‘love’ for which the maiden gives herself--let us be a little more exact—­does it not include, as a matter of course, material more tangible?  Would not the adored one look somewhat astonished on discovering that, having given herself for ‘love,’ love was all that her lover proposed to give for her.  Would she not naturally exclaim:  ’But where’s the house, to say nothing of the fittings?  And what are we to live on’?”

“It is you now who are playing with words,” asserted the Old Maid.  “The greater includes the less.  Loving her, he would naturally desire—­”