There are plenty of other club-bores besides the man who rates these generally affable and well-behaved persons, the club servants.  One of the worst is the man whom you never see anywhere except at the club, and whom you never fail to see there.  It is bad enough when you have no acquaintance with him.  Murders have probably been committed by sensitive persons for no better reason (often for worse reasons) than that they are tired of seeing some one else going about.  His voice, his manner, his cough, especially his cough, become unendurable.  People who cough in clubs are generally amateurs of the art.  They are huskier, more wheezing, more pertinacious in working away at a cough till they have made it a masterpiece than any other mortals.  We believe that club Asthmats (it is quite as good a word as “AEsthetes”) practise in the Reading Room of the British Museum, where they acquire their extraordinary compass and mastery of various notes.  Be this as it may, the cough which drives every one but its owner out of the room (though doubtless an affliction to the proprietor) gives him rank as a club-bore of the finest water.  The bore who always enters into conversation, though he has nothing to say, merely because you used to dislike him at school, or college, or elsewhere, is another common annoyance.  The man who is engaged, apparently, on a large work, and who rushes about the library hunting for Proclus and Jamblichus when other occupants of the room wish to be quiet, is naturally detested.

Most men are the bores of some other person.  People of watchful mind and intelligent habit, who talk in the drawing-room, are regarded as bores by fat old gentlemen who wish to sleep there.  And as these gentlemen turn the drawing-room into a dormitory, which resounds with their snoring, they in turn are bores to people who wish to read the papers.  But if these students drop the poker with a clang, or dash down small tables in order to waken the sleepers, they, in their turn, give a good deal of annoyance.  The man who talks about politics at great length, is only one of the common bores of the world transported into a club.  But the man with a voice which in ordinary conversation pierces through all the hum of voices, like a clarion note in battle, would be a bore anywhere.  If he were in the wilderness of Sinai, he would annoy the monks in the convent near the top.  His voice is one of those terrible, inscrutable scourges of nature, like the earthquake and the mosquito, which tax our poor human wisdom to reconcile with any monistic theory of the benevolent government of the universe.  Once admit an evil principle, however, and the thing is clear.  The club-bore with the trumpet tones, which he cannot moderate, is possessed, on this theory, by a fiend.  As men are talking quietly of turnips in one corner of the room, of rent in another, and of racing in a third, his awful notes blend in from the fourth corner with strident remarks on Bulgarian philology.