e philosophers from Ovid to
Schopenhauer, and has gorged his intellect with the abstract
principles of love, naturally adapts himself to the professorial
capacity, and I soon saw that Phyllis, while one of the most
lovable, one of the sweetest of girls, was almost wholly ignorant
of the psychology of passion. I could not expect that a young
girl of twenty-two would discourse glibly of the emotion in its
intellectual phase, but I could not bear the thought that she
should enter lightly into so serious a compact, and without
gaining a reasonable comprehension of its mental analysis. Hence,
as opportunity presented, I enriched her mind with the beauties
of love from the standpoint of philosophers and thinkers, and
showed her the priceless blessings that must result from a union
dictated by careful provision of reasoning. To these addresses
she listened with sweet patience, and if she did not always grasp
their meaning, she showed much admiration for my erudition and
frequently remarked that she had no idea that love was so
abstruse a science. It seemed to me, in the serenity of my years
and the calm assurance of my love, that I was a most persistent
wooer, and I was greatly grieved when she broke out rather
petulantly one afternoon:

"I don't believe you really love me."

"You don't believe I love you? And why?"

She hesitated, half abashed by her own outburst, then added a
little defiantly: "Well, in the first place, you never quarrel
with me."

"And why should I quarrel with you? Aren't you the most amiable,
the most perfect little woman in the world?"

"Oh, of course; I know all that. But I have always read, and
always believed, that when two persons are truly, deeply in love,
they have most exciting quarrels. Is it not true that in all
romances the man is eternally quarrelling with the girl and
bidding her farewell forever?"

"Yes, and coming back in ten minutes to weep and grovel at her
feet and beg her to forgive him. My dear little Phyllis, why
should I bid you farewell forever, when I am morally certain that
in half that time I should be cringing in the turf, weeping and
begging you to say that all is forgiven and forgotten?"

"That would be lovely," she said pensively.

"Perhaps, but it would be very undignified and unnecessary. And I
am not at all sure that you would admire me in that attitude even
if I did imitate the heroes of romance. A weeping lover is much
more agreeable in a novel than in actua