Do not interrupt another while he is speaking.

He.—So we agree that the greatest fault that a person can have is to ask questions, and then, without waiting for the answers, to plunge at once into a detailed account of his own doings. I have discovered another fault, and one, I fear, that I, too, possess; that is, to ask questions concerning the welfare of my friend and of his family, and then after he has gotten fairly under way in the recital of his woes, to interrupt him with irrelevant remarks.

She.—I am sure that you haven't this fault, although it is very common. It is based upon the principle that people, as a rule, are vitally concerned only in what concerns themselves. I have a friend who maintains that no one really enjoys listening to what another has to say. He says that the interested (?) listener is interested only in having the other person finish in order that he may have the opportunity to tell his story.

He.—I note, however, that, as a rule, people recite their woes, and not their "weals." But, of course, that depends upon the individual. Some persons always have a "hard luck story;" others, dwell upon the bright happenings in their lives.

She.—I think we each can recall some friend whose greatest pleasure is to pose as a martyr; another, who, no matter what are his ills, has always something of interest to impart pertaining to some good fortune, fancied or otherwise, which has befallen him.

He.—Speaking of our faults, I think that the best way to correct them is to notice them in our friends, and then to try to avoid them. But, of course, you haven't any.

She.—Any friends?

He.—Any faults, of course.

She.—I fear that you are not a good critic.

He.—I may not be; but you certainly have none of the bad habits that we have enumerated.

She.—Oh! you couldn't see them if I had.

He.—From sheer stupidity?

She.—Hardly; only as far as I am concerned, you have become accustomed to think of me as did Dick of Maisie, in "The Light that Failed" that "The Queen can do no wrong."

He.—That reminds me—I have just finished reading "The Light that Failed," and I am sure that I shall never get away from the awfulness of it—the awfulness of having the light go out forever.

She.—Kipling makes one see it all so vividly, where he says:

"'I shan't.' The voice rose in a wail, 'My God! I'm blind, and the darkness will never go away.' He made as if to leap from the bed, but Torpenhow's arms were around him, and Torpenhow's chin was on his shoulder, and his breath was squeezed out of him. He could only gasp, 'Blind!'"

He.—And again, the picture that Kipling draws of the blind man who suddenly finds himself unable to do that which he has been accustomed to do. I have the book with me:

"A wise man (who is blind) will keep his eyes on the floor and sit still. For amusement he may pick coal, lump by lump, out of a light scuttle, with the tongs, and pile it in a little heap by the fender, keeping count of the lumps, which must all be put back again, one by one, and very carefully. He may set himself sums if he cares to work them out; he may talk to himself, or to the cat if she chooses to visit him; and if his trade has been that of an artist he may sketch in the air with his forefinger: but that is too much like drawing a pig with his eyes shut. He may go to his bookshelves and count his books, ranging them in order of their size; or to his wardrobe and count out his shirts, laying them in piles of two or three on the bed, as they suffer from frayed cuffs or lost buttons. Even this entertainment wearies after a time; and all the times are very, very long."

I suppose that this portrayal is true to life.

She.—Undoubtedly, in a way; but I had a novel experience when traveling East this summer. While on the train, I saw a gentleman, who was trying to interest a little boy, who did not respond to his advances. I heard him ask the child whether he was a little boy, and how old he was. I saw then that the gentleman was blind, and thinking that he might prefer to talk with me, I introduced myself to him and found him a most delightful conversationalist. He told me that he had become blind very suddenly five years ago, but that his work had not been interrupted for a day since. His position as manager of a large corporation necessitated his frequent journeying in railroad trains, but he had continued to travel as before, sometimes with his secretary, and sometimes alone. He was alone when I met him. He was certainly delightfully cheerful and entertaining; and withal, he was fully informed on current topics of interest. It seemed almost impossible to realize that he was blind.

He.—His case is extraordinary; but, of course, he was not an artist, as was poor Dick, before the "light went out."

I have just discovered another reason why you are so very interesting. It is because you always have some novel experience to recount.

She.—Yes; but you know, we decided that people did not care, as a rule, to hear others talk.

He.—Well, I shall retract my decision. I have concluded that we usually like to hear others talk, if they have something interesting to tell.

She.—Yes; we are all children, in a sense. Tell us a story, and we will listen, provided the story-teller knows how to tell it.

He.—Do you know what I have been thinking of while you were telling me this incident?

She.—That we had gotten a long way from our original subject?

He.—No; I was thinking of how much you had said in comparatively few words, and that in telling this incident, you had certainly conformed to Golden Rule Number I.: Avoid unnecessary details.

She.—And you have conformed to both the rules that we have learned.

He.—Thank you. Let me see, Golden Rule Number I. is: "Avoid unnecessary details." Rule Number II.: "Not to ask question number two until question number one has been answered, nor be too curious nor too disinterested;" that is, "do not ask too few nor too many questions; just enough."

She.—And our new rule, Golden Rule Number III.: Do not interrupt another while he is speaking.

He.—How frequently this rule is broken! Many persons, who ordinarily are well bred, have the very bad habit of interrupting others. But I deserve no credit for observing Golden Rule Number III., for you are never tiresome; you never tell a long story.

She.—No; I don't do that. I knew a gentleman once who used to say with a groan, to his niece, who was rather verbose, "O Alma! You tell such a long story. Make it short;" and so I always try to make my story short.