“There is a man I know,” I said; “you may have met him, a man named Longrush.  He is not exactly a bore.  A bore expects you to listen to him.  This man is apparently unaware whether you are listening to him or not.  He is not a fool.  A fool is occasionally amusing—­ Longrush never.  No subject comes amiss to him.  Whatever the topic, he has something uninteresting to say about it.  He talks as a piano-organ grinds out music steadily, strenuously, tirelessly.  The moment you stand or sit him down he begins, to continue ceaselessly till wheeled away in cab or omnibus to his next halting-place.  As in the case of his prototype, his rollers are changed about once a month to suit the popular taste.  In January he repeats to you Dan Leno’s jokes, and gives you other people’s opinions concerning the Old Masters at the Guild-hall.  In June he recounts at length what is generally thought concerning the Academy, and agrees with most people on most points connected with the Opera.  If forgetful for a moment—­as an Englishman may be excused for being—­whether it be summer or winter, one may assure oneself by waiting to see whether Longrush is enthusing over cricket or football.  He is always up-to-date.  The last new Shakespeare, the latest scandal, the man of the hour, the next nine days’ wonder—­by the evening Longrush has his roller ready.  In my early days of journalism I had to write each evening a column for a provincial daily, headed ’What People are Saying.’  The editor was precise in his instructions.  ’I don’t want your opinions; I don’t want you to be funny; never mind whether the thing appears to you to be interesting or not.  I want it to be real, the things people are saying.’  I tried to be conscientious.  Each paragraph began with ‘That.’  I wrote the column because I wanted the thirty shillings.  Why anybody ever read it, I fail to understand to this day; but I believe it was one of the popular features of the paper.  Longrush invariably brings back to my mind the dreary hours I spent penning that fatuous record.”

“I think I know the man you mean,” said the Philosopher.  “I had forgotten his name.”

“I thought it possible you might have met him,” I replied.  “Well, my cousin Edith was arranging a dinner-party the other day, and, as usual, she did me the honour to ask my advice.  Generally speaking, I do not give advice nowadays.  As a very young man I was generous with it.  I have since come to the conclusion that responsibility for my own muddles and mistakes is sufficient.  However, I make an exception in Edith’s case, knowing that never by any chance will she follow it.”

“Speaking of editors,” said the Philosopher, “Bates told me at the club the other night that he had given up writing the ’Answers to Correspondents’ personally, since discovery of the fact that he had been discussing at some length the attractive topic, ’Duties of a Father,’ with his own wife, who is somewhat of a humorist.”