rself, but she will generally lay down two
commandments:

1. Thou shalt love me.

2. Thou shalt succeed so that I may love thee.

All this is not manifest, but it is there. It is there even in the days
of courtship, when a man's work, a man's clothes, a man's views on
bimetallism are sacred; in those days, the woman must kowtow to the
man's work, just as he must keep on good terms with her pet dog. But the
time almost invariably comes when the man kicks the pet dog, because
pet dogs are madly irritating sometimes--and so is a man's work. There
is something self-protective in this, for work is so domineering. I
should not be at all surprised to hear that Galatea saw to it that
Pygmalion never made another statue. (On second thoughts it strikes me
that there might be other reasons for that.)

It is true that Pygmalion was an artist, and these are proverbially
difficult husbands: after an hour's work an artist will "sneer, backbite
and speak daggers." Art is a vampire, and it will gladly gobble up a
wife as well as a husband, but the wife must not do any gobbling. She
does not always try to, and there are many in London who follow their
artist husbands rather like sandwichmen between two boards, but they are
of a trampled breed, indigenous, I suspect, to England. I think they
arise but little in America, where, as an American said to me, "women
labor to advance themselves along a road paved with discarded husbands."
(This is an American's statement, not mine, so I ask the Reverend John
Bootfeller, President of the Kansas and Nevada Society for the
Propagation of the Intellect, to spare me his denunciations.)

But leaving aside such important things as personal pettinesses, which
too few think important, it must be acknowledged that women seldom
conceive the passion for art that can inflame a man. They very seldom
conceive a passion for anything except passion,--an admirable tendency
for which they blush as one does for all one's natural manifestations.
They hardly ever care for philosophy; they generally hate politics, but
they nearly always love votes. They are quite as irritating in that way
as men, who almost invariably adore politics and detest realities,
sometimes love science and generally prefer record railway runs. But
where such an interest as a science or an art has reigned supreme in a
man, and reasserts itself after marriage, she recognizes her enemy, the
serpent, for is he not the symbol of wisd