--is
one who always panders to this particular foible because he recognizes
its universality. He has a country-house, which is always full of
guests, with a great many girls among them. Every afternoon, when he
drives out from town, his first sentence is, "Now come, children, and
tell me all about everything. Who has been here, and what they said,
and what you thought, and everything that has happened, including all
that is going to happen. Don't skip a word."

See the base flattery of that! Is it any wonder that his house is
always full? What bores he would be responsible for making if we were
stupid enough to do as he asks! The chief reason people do not is that
ten people cannot tell all they know about everything, even if they
want to. He is only furnished with two ears.

The dyspeptic is one who makes the most valiant effort to try. His
dyspepsia is the most important issue of the world with him, and he
_will_ talk about it. He cannot keep still and let other people enjoy
their sound digestion and healthful sleep. He will not even let other
people eat in peace. When he refuses a dish at table he must needs
tell you why--just as if you cared!

"Have some coffee, Mr. Bore?"

"No, I thank you, Madame Sans-Gene. I like coffee, but it doesn't like
me!"

Irritating, maddeningly reiterated words--the trade-mark of the
dyspeptic bore! I feel like saying, "I agree with the coffee. _I_
don't like you either!"

A dyspeptic disagrees with me as religiously as if I had eaten him.

No wonder a man is ill who never thinks or talks of anything but the
seat of his ailment, for talk about it he will, and tell you that he
cannot eat hot breads or pastry or griddle-cakes or waffles. And if
any of those adorable things which your soul loves are on the table,
he will sit and watch you eat them, with his hand on his own pulse,
and will entertain you with cheerful statements of how he would be
feeling if _he_ were eating any of the deadly poisons, until it nearly
gives you indigestion to hear him describe it.

I dare say I know plenty of women dyspeptics, as long as dyspepsia is
said to be our national ailment, but if I do I never hear them talk
about it.

Of course every woman knows that a sick man is sicker than a thousand
sick women, each of whom is twice as sick as he is. We all know that
he can groan louder and roll his eyes higher and keep more people
flying about, and all this with just a plain pain, than his wife would