Bromides we may love, and even marry.  Your own mother, your sister, your sweetheart, may be bromidic, but you are not less affectionate.  They are restful and soporific.  You may not have understood them; before you heard of the Sulphitic Theory you were annoyed at their dullness, their dogmas, but, with this white light illuminating them, you accept them, now, for what they are, and, expecting nothing original from them, you find a new peace and a new joy in their society.  “You may estimate your capacity for the Comic,” says Meredith—­and the statement might be applied as well to the Bromidic—­“by being able to detect the ridicule of them you love, without loving them less.”

* * * * *

The Bromide has no salt nor spice nor savor—­but he is the bread of Society, the veriest staff of life.  And if, like Little Jack Horner, you can occasionally put in your thumb and pull out a sulphitic plum from your acquaintance, be thankful for that, too!