et and blindly becomes a chain.

The age has brought with it woman's desire for equality, at least in the
matter of love. She wishes to be as free to seek a man as he is to seek
her--to love him as freely and frankly as he does her. Why should she
withhold her lips after her heart has surrendered? Why should she keep
the pretence of coyness long after she has been won?

[Sidenote: The Old, Old Law]

Far beneath the tinsel of our restless age lies the old, old law, and
she who scorns it does so at the peril of all she holds most dear.
Legislation may at times be disobeyed, but never law, for the breaking
brings swift punishment of its own.

Too often a generous-hearted woman makes the mistake of full revelation.
She wishes him to understand her every deed, her every thought. Nothing
is left to his imagination--the innermost corners of her heart are laid
bare. Given the woman and the circumstances, he would infallibly know
her action. This is why the husbands of the "practical," the
"methodical," and the "reasonable" women may be tender and devoted, but
are never lovers after marriage.

If Alexander had been a woman, he would not have sighed for more worlds
to conquer--woman asks but one. If his world had been a clever woman he
would have had no time for alien planets, because a man will never lose
his interest in a woman while his conquest is incomplete.

The woman who is most tenderly loved and whose husband is still her
lover, carefully conceals from him the fact that she is fully won. There
is always something he has yet to gain.

[Sidenote: A Carmen at Heart]

After ten years of marriage, if the old relation remains the same, it is
because she is a Carmen at heart. She is alluring, tempting, cajoling
and scorning in the same breath; at once tender and commanding,
inspiring both love and fear, baffling and eluding even while she is
leading him on.

She gives him veiled hints of her real personality, but he never
penetrates her mask. Could he see for an instant into the secret depths
of her soul, he would understand that her concealment and her coquetry,
her mystery and her charm, are nothing but her love, playing a desperate
game against Time and man's nature, for the dear stake of his own.

Dumas draws a fine distinction when he says: "A man may have two
passions but never two loves: whoever has loved twice has never loved at
all." If this is true, the dividing line is so exceedingly fine that it
is beyon