You do not very often come across men on these “at home” days.  If they are in the house, they wisely avoid the drawing-room; and if you ever do meet one, he is sure to be a very milk-and-water young man—­one who delights in small talk and small matters; or else a curate.

I met one of the former class the other day.  He was a dreadful specimen!  A large head, a bland smile, a vacant stare, and an enormous capacity for eating!

He came and sat by me when I first arrived; but when he made a slip of the tongue, and I brought it to his notice kindly, but firmly, he went away and sulked for the rest of the afternoon.

He was talking about the recent muzzling order, and added, in quick little tones, “They are talking about muzzling cats, I see.”

“But cats do not bite,” I objected.

“No,” in mild surprise at my ignorance; “but they scratch.”

“And do they intend to muzzle their paws?” I asked, smiling; adding a suggestion that two pairs of goloshes apiece would answer the purpose admirably, besides having the combined advantage of keeping the poor things from rheumatism!

But he did not smile.  He saw nothing funny in what he had said.  He thought I was laughing at him, and so left me at the very first opportunity, and went and sat by himself at the tea table.  I could not very well see what he was doing, for his back was turned; howbeit it was a very eloquent back—­a back which appeared absorbed in bread and butter and cakes!  He must have cleared the table, I should think, before he had finished!

It certainly is not nice to be caught up suddenly and made to appear foolish.  If you ever make a mistake, the best way is to confess it at once, to tell the tale yourself.  It sounds very different from your lips than from those of your dearest friends.  People laugh, but it is a laugh that lacks the sting it would have if someone else told it at your expense.

I remember making a woeful slip when I was taken over a cotton mill.  The man who was conducting us pointed to what looked like a heap of dirty wool, and explained that it was the raw material.  “And is that just as it comes off the sheep’s back?” I asked, unthinkingly.  If a thunderbolt had fallen in our midst the guide could not have been more astonished.  “Cotton, Miss!” he said, with grave surprise, “Cotton is a plant!” I inquired for no further information in that cotton mill, but I told the story myself when I reached home, joining in the laughter that followed as heartily as any of my audience.

Curates are more the rule than the exception at the five o’clock meal.  Somehow, you always connect the two.  Afternoon tea without a curate sounds an anomaly, a something incomplete.

I have had great experience in curates.  Ours is a large parish, and many clerical helps are needed.  Large, small, nice, objectionable, ugly, handsome—­I have met specimens of each and all, and have come to the conclusion that the last kind is the worst.  How rarely do you meet a good-looking man who thinks of anything but his appearance.  It is strange, for the more lovely a woman is the less apparently conscious she is of her beauty.  At any rate, she does not go about with an expression which seems to say, “I am that which is ’a joy forever’—­admire me!”