g, the arguments
employed on both sides being battle-axes, clubs, etc. Questions of taste
were soon decided in those days. When a twelfth-century youth fell in
love he did not take three paces backward, gaze into her eyes, and tell
her she was too beautiful to live. He said he would step outside and see
about it. And if, when he got out, he met a man and broke his head--the
other man's head, I mean--then that proved that his--the first
fellow's--girl was a pretty girl. But if the other fellow broke _his_
head--not his own, you know, but the other fellow's--the other fellow
to the second fellow, that is, because of course the other fellow would
only be the other fellow to him, not the first fellow who--well, if he
broke his head, then _his_ girl--not the other fellow's, but the fellow
who _was_ the--Look here, if A broke B's head, then A's girl was a
pretty girl; but if B broke A's head, then A's girl wasn't a pretty
girl, but B's girl was. That was their method of conducting art
criticism.

Nowadays we light a pipe and let the girls fight it out among
themselves.

They do it very well. They are getting to do all our work. They are
doctors, and barristers, and artists. They manage theaters, and promote
swindles, and edit newspapers. I am looking forward to the time when we
men shall have nothing to do but lie in bed till twelve, read two novels
a day, have nice little five-o'clock teas all to ourselves, and tax
our brains with nothing more trying than discussions upon the latest
patterns in trousers and arguments as to what Mr. Jones' coat was
made of and whether it fitted him. It is a glorious prospect--for idle
fellows.

ON BEING IN LOVE.

You've been in love, of course! If not you've got it to come. Love is
like the measles; we all have to go through it. Also like the measles,
we take it only once. One never need be afraid of catching it a second
time. The man who has had it can go into the most dangerous places and
play the most foolhardy tricks with perfect safety. He can picnic in
shady woods, ramble through leafy aisles, and linger on mossy seats to
watch the sunset. He fears a quiet country-house no more than he would
his own club. He can join a family party to go down the Rhine. He can,
to see the last of a friend, venture into the very jaws of the marriage
ceremony itself. He can keep his head through the whirl of a ravishing
waltz, and rest afterward in a dark conservatory, catching nothing more
la