Avoid unnecessary details.

He.—Do you know that what you say always interests me?

She.—That is because we are such good comrades.

He.—Not altogether. I think that it is because you never dwell upon details.

She.—Then, one is interesting in conversation according as one omits details?

He.—Unnecessary details.

She.—I remember that, when visiting some friends whom I had not seen for several years, my hostess said to me, "Ever since your arrival, I have been trying to discover why you are so interesting in conversation, and I have decided that it is because you omit unnecessary details." I felt that my hostess had paid me a high compliment.

He.—Yes; but one that you deserve. Now, even in telling this incident, you were direct. The bore would have "side-tracked," and would have told innumerable and irrelevant details. I don't believe you could bore a person if you were to try.

She.—I am quite sure that I could. Listen to this: "Several years ago,—four years ago just,—this last June; no, it was only three years ago, because I remember now that four years ago I did not attend the alumnae reunion of our college, and so it must have been three years ago,—I was the guest of one of the members of my class,—I was attending the annual reunion of the alumnae of our college,—almost every year I attend the alumnae reunion of our college,—and on this occasion, I was the guest of one of the members of my class. She had not been attending the reunions, and so I had not seen her for several years,—five years at least, and——"

He.—Pardon my interruption, but you are a success.

She.—As a bore?

He.—No; as an imitator. I think that you should have been an actress.

She.—Yes; I think that Nature intended me for one; and I could have "acted." Indeed, I usually find it difficult not to act; that is, I find it difficult to be myself.

He.—Like "Sensational Tommy" in "Tommy and Grizel"?

She.—Yes; in a way.

He.—And why were you not an actress? Was it because you did not know that you had talent?

She.—From an opposite reason. I had so many talents that, like the woman in "Mother Goose," I hardly knew what to do.

He.—That sounds modest. You probably would have been a great actress.

She.—I might not have been. Sometimes, you know, persons who are very gifted seem to miss the best that life has to offer.

He.—I have decided that you are interesting, not because you do not "sidetrack," but because you have such a stupendous amount of conceit. You seem to be fully aware of what you possess. It is delightful.

She.—My talent or my conceit?

He.—Both.

She.—I am sure that if any one else possessed my talents, I should not hesitate to speak of them. Why should I not speak of mine?

He.—That is one way to look at it. Now, I suppose if I were to tell you that you were very gifted, you would say, "Thank you; I think that I am, too,"—or words to that effect.

She.—Yes; I think that I should respond in some such way. Why should I not? Why shouldn't I recognize my gifts and be thankful for them?

He.—Well, usually, you know, when any one receives a compliment, he is apt to regard it as flattery, and to treat it accordingly; or, if he thinks the praise is merited, his words are apt to belie his thoughts.

She.—Yes, but that brooks of insincerity. However, we are a long way from our subject. We were wondering why some persons "bore" and why some do not. We decided that one must under no circumstances enter into too many details.

He.—They are ruinous. If a person is very polite, he will feign an interest that he does not feel. Often, however, he betrays, by an absent expression, that the "details" have done their "deadly work." You always seem interested, I notice, even when the narrator has wandered from the main road into innumerable by-paths.

She.—I appear interested, because I am interested, for I am continually on the alert to find out just how he is going to get back to the main road. I find, however, that in the majority of cases, he never gets back. He is lost in such a labyrinth that, as compared with it, the Garden of Versailles and the "maze" of Hampton Court are as naught; and just as these world-famed networks have a kind of attraction for the curious, so I find it interesting to follow the bore as he goes from one intricate passage into another in his endeavor to find an exit. But I must leave him to his fate, or I, too, shall be lost in a "maze" and shall not be able to find the main path.

He.—Then, Golden Rule Number I is: Avoid Unnecessary Details. I shall try to remember the rule, and profit by its significance.