fingers.

This put her in a good humour. Now that I come to think of it, there
is something adorably infantile in grown up women. Shall man ever
understand them? I have seen babies (not many, I am glad to say) crow
with delight at having their toes pulled, with a "this little pig went
to market," and so forth; Judith almost crowed at having the weeks told
off on her fingers. Queer!

An hour was taken up with the account of her doings in Paris. She had
met all the nicest and naughtiest people. She had been courted and
flattered. An artist in a slouch hat, baggy corduroy breeches, floppy
tie and general 1830 misfit had made love to her on the top of the
Eiffel Tower.

"And he said," laughed Judith, "'_Partons ensemble. Comme on dit en
Anglais_--fly with me!' I remarked that our state when we got to the
Champs de Mars would be an effective disguise. He didn't understand, and
it was delicious!"

I laughed. "All the same," I observed, "I can't see the fun of making
jokes which the person to whom you make them doesn't see the point of."

"Why, that's your own peculiar form of humour," she retorted. "I caught
the trick from you."

Perhaps she is right. I have noticed that people are slow in their
appreciation of my witticisms. I must really be a very dull dog. If she
were not fond of me I don't see how a bright woman like Judith could
tolerate my society for half an hour.

I don't think I contribute to the world's humour; but the world's
humour contributes much to my own entertainment, and things which appear
amusing to me do not appeal, when I point them out, to the risible
faculties of another. Every individual, I suppose, like every
civilisation, must have his own standard of humour. If I were a Roman
(instead of an English) Epicurean, I should have died with laughter
at the sight of a fat Christian martyr scudding round the arena while
chased by a hungry lion. At present I should faint with horror. Indeed,
I always feel tainted with savagery and enjoying a vicarious lust, when
I smile at the oft-repeated tale of the poor tiger in Dore's picture
that hadn't got a Christian. On the other hand, it tickles me immensely
to behold a plethoric commonplace Briton roar himself purple with
impassioned platitude at a political meeting; but I perceive that all
my neighbours take him with the utmost seriousness. Again, your literary
journalist professes to wriggle in his chair over the humour of Jane
Austen; to me she is th