The mere fact, however, that I am not interested in local politics would not ordinarily, in a normal state of civilization, explain my ignorance of these things.  In most societies they would be the usual subjects of conversation.  People naturally discuss what interests them most.  Uneducated people talk about the weather, their work, their ailments and their domestic affairs.  With more enlightened folk the conversation turns on broader topics—­the state of the country, politics, trade, or art.

It is only among the so-called society people that the subjects selected for discussion do not interest anybody.  Usually the talk that goes on at dinners or other entertainments relates only to what plays the conversationalists in question have seen or which of the best sellers they have read.  For the rest the conversation is dexterously devoted to the avoidance of the disclosure of ignorance.  Even among those who would like to discuss the questions of the day intelligently and to ascertain other people’s views pertaining to them, there is such a fundamental lack of elementary information that it is a hopeless undertaking.  They are reduced to the commonplaces of vulgar and superficial comment.

“’Tis plain,” cry they, “our mayor’s a noddy; and as for the corporation—­shocking!”

The mayor may be and probably is a noddy, but his critics do not know why.  The average woman who dines out hardly knows what she is saying or what is being said to her.  She will usually agree with any proposition that is put to her—­if she has heard it.  Generally she does not listen.

I know a minister’s wife who never pays the slightest attention to anything that is being said to her, being engrossed in a torrent of explanation regarding her children’s education and minor diseases.  Once a bored companion in a momentary pause fixed her sternly with his eye and said distinctly:  “But I don’t give a —–­ about your children!” At which the lady smiled brightly and replied:  “Yes.  Quite so.  Exactly!  As I was saying, Johnny got a—­”

But, apart from such hectic people, who run quite amuck whenever they open their mouths, there are large numbers of men and women of some intelligence who never make the effort to express conscientiously any ideas or opinions.  They find it irksome to think.  They are completely indifferent as to whether a play is really good or bad or who is elected mayor of the city.  In any event they will have their coffee, rolls and honey served in bed the next morning; and they know that, come what will—­flood, tempest, fire or famine—­there will be forty-six quarts of extra xxx milk left at their area door.  They are secure.  The stock market may rise and fall, presidents come and go, but they will remain safe in the security of fifty thousand a year.  And, since they really do not care about anything, they are as likely to praise as to blame, and to agree with everybody about everything.  Their world is all cakes and ale—­why should they bother as to whether the pothouse beer is bad?