en? Oh, the scores
and scores of men who have told me what their wives thought of them,
and then the looks these wives have shot at me across the flowers on
the dinner-table! Only one glance, which no man caught, telegraphing,
"Do I, though? You are a woman and you know. You know what I would
have if I could, but how I have had to make him believe that he was
all of that, because he is my husband." Not that she is dissatisfied
with him. Not that she would give him up. Not that she would leave him
or have anybody else if she could. She loves him all she can, and he
loves her all he wants to. He has won the game, but he has not played
for all there was in it.

I never have been able to make up my mind whether ideal love was the
best, or if love with a great deal of common-sense in it was not the
most philosophical and better in the long-run. But to those of us who
are romantic it is fearful to think of deliberately turning our backs
on terrapin and lobster and ice-cream, and meditating upon plain bread
and cold potatoes. You men do not recognize the romantic streak which,
of more or less breadth and thickness, runs through every woman,
making her love good love-making. You are so terribly practical and
common-sense and every-day. We girls like flowers, and mental
indigestibles, and occasional Sundays. We do not know why we do, but
we do, and we cannot help it, and if you are going to make love
according to Hoyle you must recognize this fact, and pamper us in our
folly. Don't we pamper you?

Now I know perfectly well how some of you are going to work at it. You
will begin by thinking, "Yes, that's true. I've got a girl like that,
and, by Jove, I'll humor her!" Bless your dear hearts! Your intentions
are always of the best. If only you knew how to carry them out! But
the first time you come across a little unreasonable, sentimental
folly of hers, you will take her hand in yours and say, "Yes, dear, I
understand just what you mean. I know exactly how you feel on the
subject, and I am perfectly willing to do what you want me to. But,
don't you see, if I do, it would look just a little queer to
mother"--(or the boys, or the other fellows, or to Jessie and the
girls, or to--you may insert the name for yourself)--"and, while I
want to please you, I hardly think that is quite the way to go about
it; so, if you will be the dear, sensible little woman that you always
are, we will simply take a nice little walk, instead of going t