lo! though a man hath eaten his fill at one meal, why shall he lack appetite for the next?
Then, I charge thee, my Daughter, when love beginneth, question not any man how it will end; for it is only in the beginning of things that a man is interested; even in the cream from off the jug, the bubble of the champagne, the meat on the peach, and – the first kiss of a woman.
Yet, what mattereth the end? Is not the end of the cream, skimmed milk; and the end of a cigar, a stub; and the end of a peach, a stone; and the end of champagne, dregs; and the end of love, a quarrel? And which of these would ye choose?
Verily, the flirtations of a man’s bachelor days are, in passing, as the courses of the love-feast; but a wife is the black coffee which settleth him.
CHAPTER TWO
Marvellous, oh, my Daughter, is the way of a man with women; for every man hath a method and each his favorite stunt. And the stunt that he hath found to work successfully with one damsel shall be practised upon each in turn, even unto the finest details thereof.
Behold, one man shall come unto thee saying:
“How foolish are the sentimentalists! But, as for me, my motives are altruistic and disinterested; and a woman’s friendship is what I most desire.” Yet, I charge thee, seek among his women “friends” and thou shalt not find an homely damsel in all their number.
For this is the platonic stunt.
Now, another shall try thee by a simpler method.
Lo, suddenly and without warning, he shall arise and catch thee in his arms. And when thou smitest him upon the cheek, he shall be overcome with humiliation, crying:
“I could not help it!”
Yet be not persuaded, but put him down without mercy, lest peradventure, he kiss thee again.
For this is the impetuous stunt.
Yet observe how still another seeketh to be more subtile.
Mark how he sitteth afar off and talketh of love in the abstract; how he calleth three times a week, yet remaineth always impersonal; how he praiseth the shape of thine hand and admireth thy rings, yet toucheth not so much as the tips of thy fingers.
“Lo,” he thinketh in his heart, “I shall keep her guessing. Yea, I shall wrack her soul with thoughts of how I may be brought to subjection. And when she can no longer contain her curiosity, then will she seek to lure me, and I shall gather her in mine arms.”
And this is the elusive stunt.
But, I say unto thee, my Daughter, each of these is but as a chainstitch unto a rose pattern, beside him that playeth the frankly devoted.
For all women are unto him as one woman – and that one putty.
Lo, the look of “adoration” in his eyes is like unto the curl in his hair, always there; and he weareth his “protecting manner” as naturally and as constantly as his linen collar.
He is so attentive and the thoughtful thing cometh unto him as second nature.
Yea, though there be twenty damsels in the room, yet shall each be made to think in her heart:
“Lo, I am it!”
Verily, verily, all the days of his life he shall be waited on and cooed over and coddled by women; and his way shall be as one continuous path of conquests and thornless roses.
For this is the Stunt of Stunts!
CHAPTER THREE
I charge thee, my Daughter, seek not to break a man’s heart; for it is like unto family pride, or a pin, which may be bent, but cannot be broken! Yea, it is as a ball of India rubber which reboundeth easily after the worst shocks.
Lo, the heart of a woman is full of soft spots in which every man she hath once loved occupieth a “cozy corner”. She lingereth tenderly over the grave of a dead love; but a man flingeth a spadeful of earth thereon and proceedeth to dig a new one. And his heart is as a great cemetery!
A woman keepeth a bundle of love-letters tied in faded ribbons; but a man cleaneth his pipe bowl cheerfully with the stem of the rose which the girl-before-the-last hath worn in her hair.
A woman remembereth the dress she hath worn and the song she hath sung for each particular man; but a man remembereth not the scent of violet sachet when the odor of heliotrope is in his nostrils.
And, after six months, when he cometh by chance upon an old glove or a lock of hair at the bottom of his trunk, he casteth it into the fire, muttering, “Now, who the devil put that thing there?”
A woman recollecteth each pet name by which she hath been called; she alloweth no two men to label her alike. But unto a man, every woman becometh in turn “Little Girl” or “Baby” or “Honey”.
Lo, he is as one that playeth with skulls and sporteth with the bones of his ancestors; for he holdeth nothing sacred.
He eraseth one face from the tablet of memory, and draweth another across it.
He changeth his object of thought as readily as he changeth his clothes and his political opinions.
For a woman’s love is a slow flame which smouldereth always, but a man’s love is like unto a skyrocket, which sputtereth out and cannot be rekindled.
Verily, his “past” is always quite past, and his dead loves are quite dead. And there is nothing which is more wearisome unto him than the memory of yesterday’s wine, or yesterday’s flirtation.
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