epose it can get. See
the sofa cushions, which he has learned by bitter experience never to
touch! Does he rouse a quiescent Nemesis by laying his weary head upon
that elaborate embroidery? Not unless his memory is poor.

[Sidenote: Home Comforts]

Take careful note of the bric-a-brac upon his library table. See the few
square inches of blotting paper on a cylinder which he can roll over his
letter--the three stamps stuck together more closely than brothers,
generously set aside for his use. Does he find comfort here? Not very
much of it.

See the dainty dinner which is set before the hungry man. A cup of
rarest china holds four ounces of clear broth. A stick of bread or two
crackers are allotted to him. Then he may have two croquettes, or one
small chop, when his soul is athirst for rare roast beef and steak an
inch thick. Then a nice salad, made of three lettuce leaves and a
suspicion of oil, another cracker and a cubic inch of cheese, an ounce
of coffee in a miniature cup, and behold, the man is fed!

Why should he go to his club, call loudly for flesh-pots, sink into a
chair he is not afraid of breaking, and forget his trouble in the
evening paper, while his wife is at home, alone, or having a Roman
holiday as a chaperone?

It is a simple thing to acquire a lover, but it is a fine art to keep
him. Clubs were originally intended for the homeless, as distinguished
from the unmarried. The rare woman who rests and soothes a man when he
is tired has no rival in the club. Misunderstanding, sorrowful, yearning
for what she has lost, woman contemplates the wreck of her girlish
dream.

[Sidenote: The Heart of a Woman]

There are three things man is destined never to solve--perpetual motion,
the square of the circle, and the heart of a woman. Yet he may go a
little way into the labyrinth with the thread of love, which his Ariadne
will gladly give him at the door.

The dim chambers are fragrant with precious things, for through the
winding passages Memory has strewn rue and lavender, love and longing;
sweet spikenard and instinctive belief. Some day, when the heart aches,
she will brew content from these.

There are barriers which he may not pass, secret treasures that he may
not see, dreams that he may not guess. There are dark corners where
there has been torture, of which he will never know. There are shadows
and ghostly shapes which Penelope has hidden with the fairest fabrics of
her loom. There are doors, tigh