ave nothing to complain of in
the way women in society treat them. They get better than they deserve
and much better than they give. So all they will have to do to win a
better opinion will be to deserve it, and, if they make never so
slight an advance, they will see that they are met more than half-way
by even the most captious critics of their acquaintance.

Adaptability is a heaven-sent gift. It is like the straw used in
packing china. It not only saves jarring, but it prevents worse
disasters, and without it a man is only safe when he is alone. The
moment he comes into smart contact with his fellow-beings there is a
crash, and the assembled company have a vision of broken fragments of
humanity, which might have remained whole and suffered no more injury
than a possible nick had the combatants been padded with adaptability.
The irresistible man is the man who thinks he can get through the
world without it. The irresistible man is the one who is so perfect in
his own estimation that he needs no change. He is beyond human help.

THE STUPID MAN

His opposite, the clever man, said to me yesterday: "You know, to be
actually interested is as likely to make one grateful as anything in
this world, unless it be a realization of the kindness of Fate in
sparing us the perpetual society of fools."

The perpetual society of fools! Think of it, and then revel, you
women, in the thought that we are only bored occasionally--once a
week, say, or once a day, or once every two hours, taking our bores as
we do ill-flavored medicine. It never occurred to me before I heard
that phrase that life held anything more wearisome than to be bored
occasionally.

I have read _Ben-Hur_, and thought how awful it would be to be a
galley-slave. I have read _The Seats of the Mighty_, and shuddered at
the idea of being imprisoned for five years alone and without a light.
I have seen a flock of sheep driven by shouting, panting, racing
little boys, and have been glad I did not have to drive sheep for my
daily bread. I have rejoiced that my lot was not that of a Paris
cab-horse, but I never in all my life thought of any fate so appalling
as that contained in those words--the perpetual society of fools.

Why not reform our penitentiary methods? What is a prison cell to a
clever embezzler, if he can have books and a pipe? Nothing but a long
rest for his worn-out nerves--possibly a grateful change.

But what would be the feelings of a man of brilli