ossal cosmic cachinnation. And, in the light of subsequent
events, the justice of the comparison will commend itself to all but the
most sober readers.

Had it not been for my chance meeting with Swears, the eminent
astronomer and objurgationist, this book would never have been written.
He asked me down to our basement, which he rents from me as an
observatory, and in spite of all that has happened since I still
remember our wigil very distinctly. (I spell it with a "w" from an
inordinate affection for that letter.) Swears moved about, invisible but
painfully audible to my naked ear. The night was very warm, and I was
very thirsty. As I gazed through the syphon, the little star seemed
alternately to expand and contract, and finally to assume a sort of dual
skirt, but that was simply because my eye was tired. I remember how I
sat under the table with patches of green and crimson swimming before my
eyes. Grotesque and foolish as this may seem to the sober reader, it is
absolutely true.

Swears watched till one, and then he gave it up. He was full of
speculations about the condition of Wenus. Swears' language was
extremely sultry.

"The chances against anything lady-like on Wenus," he said, "are a
million to one."

Even _Pearson's Weekly_ woke up to the disturbance at last, and Mrs.
Lynn Linton contributed an article entitled "What Women Might Do" to the
_Queen_. A paper called _Punch_, if I remember the name aright, made a
pun on the subject, which was partially intelligible with the aid of
italics and the laryngoscope. For my own part, I was too much occupied
in teaching my wife to ride a Bantam, and too busy upon a series of
papers in _Nature_ on the turpitude of the classical professoriate of
the University of London, to give my undivided attention to the
impending disaster. I cannot divide things easily; I am an indivisible
man. But one night I went for a bicycle ride with my wife. She _was_ a
Bantam of delight, I can tell you, but she rode very badly. It was
starlight, and I was attempting to explain the joke in the paper called,
if I recollect aright, _Punch_. It was an extraordinarily sultry night,
and I told her the names of all the stars she saw as she fell off her
machine. She had a good bulk of falls. There were lights in the upper
windows of the houses as the people went to bed. Grotesque and foolish
as this will seem to the sober reader, it is absolutely true. Coming
home, a party of bean-feasters from W