seem a little unserviceable. Or, if you prefer, since we
seem to be dealing with impossibles, we might turn about and more truly
define her as The Woman of Whom We are Worthy, for who dare say that
she exists? If, again, she were defined as the Woman our More
Fortunate Friend Marries, her unapproachableness would rob the
definition of any practical value. Other generalisations proving
equally unprofitable, I began scientifically to consider in detail the
attributes of the supposititious paragon,--attributes of body and mind
and heart. This was soon done; but again, as I thus conned all those
virtues which I was to expect united in one unhappy woman, the result
was still unsatisfying, for I began to perceive that it was really not
perfection that I was in search of. As I added virtue after virtue to
the female monster in my mind, and the result remained still inanimate
and unalluring, I realised that the lack I was conscious of was not any
new perfection, but just one or two honest human imperfections. And
this, try as I would, was just what I could not imagine.

For, if you reflect a moment, you will see that, while it is easy to
choose what virtues we would have our wife possess, it is all but
impossible to imagine those faults we would desire in her, which I
think most lovers would admit add piquancy to the loved one, that
fascinating wayward imperfection which paradoxically makes her perfect.

Faults in the abstract are each and all so uninviting, not to say
alarming, but, associated with certain eyes and hair and tender little
gowns, it is curious how they lose their terrors; and, as with vice in
the poet's image, we end by embracing what we began by dreading. You
see the fault becomes a virtue when it is hers, the treason prospers;
wherefore, no doubt, the impossibility of imagining it. What
particular fault will suit a particular unknown girl is obviously as
difficult to determine as in what colours she will look her best.

So, I say, I plied my brains in vain for that becoming fault. It was
the same whether I considered her beauty, her heart, or her mind. A
charming old Italian writer has laid down the canons of perfect
feminine beauty with much nicety in a delicious discourse, which, as he
delivered it in a sixteenth-century Florentine garden to an audience of
beautiful and noble ladies, an audience not too large to be intimate
and not too small to be embarrassing, it was his delightful good
fortune a