A good wife, now, would nip these ideas in the bud and make existence infinitely more restful to him.  Henry and he once got up a notion of inventing a new drink which was to make them both everlastingly famous and superlatively rich.  They talked about it for hours and had even got to designing the labels and bottles when I stepped in and told Henry not to be a silly ass, that he was making a fool of himself, and a few other sensible wifely things like that which finally brought him to reason.  William, however, having no one to bring him to reason, goes on day by day becoming more of a lunatic.  I could never understand why there is such a close bond between him and Henry, unless it is because they enjoy arguing together.  Henry, being a Scotsman, likes argument; and William, being an Irishman, likes hearing his own voice.  Thus they seldom got bored with each other.

The time we did get bored with William was when he turned inventor.  It came rather as a surprise to us; and when he began to be abstracted, profoundly meditative, almost sullen, with an apparent desire to be alone, we thought at first that it was the onset of hydrophobia.  In fact, we looked it up on the back of the dog-licence to make sure.

William’s remarks next became irrelevant.  For example, after being wrapped in silence for over half an hour, he suddenly flung out the question, ’How many people do you know who possess a trousers-press?

Faced with the problem, I confessed I could not connect a single acquaintance with a trousers-press.  ‘Henry hasn’t got one,’ I admitted.

‘Neither have I,’ said William. (I didn’t doubt that for an instant.) He went on to remark that he knew many men in many walks of life, and only two of them owned a trousers-press, and they shared it between them.  Yet the inventor of this apparently negligible article had made a small fortune out of the idea.

‘If,’ concluded William, ’you can make a small fortune out of a thing that you can dispense with, how much more can you make out of something that you can’t do without?’

This sentence I give as William composed it, and from its construction you will understand the state of his mind, for he was as fastidious regarding style as Henry himself.  Of course there was some excuse for him.  You see, when you’re an inventor you can’t be anything else.  It takes all your time.  Judging by William’s procedure you must sit up experimenting all night long; you lie down in your clothes and snatch a little sleep at odd moments.  When you walk abroad you stride along muttering, waving your arms and bumping into people; you forget to eat; your friends fall away from you.  Let me advise parents who are thinking of a career for their sons never to make inventors of them.  It’s a dog’s life.  Far better to put them to something with regular hours, say from 10.30 to 4 o’clock, which leaves them with the evenings free.