elf to be loving and devoted
every minute of her life. She has stored provisions of all the best
resolutions and virtues under the sun and above. She arrives in her new
home ready to yield in everything, even ready to run the house and dress
on nothing a year. How she loves that man! Her whole being is given up
to love. By-and-by she discovers that the most loving couples require
one or two meals a day, and that fig-leaves are much more expensive than
they were when they were first worn. Her husband, who, like all men, is
an idiot as far as the knowledge of housekeeping is concerned, begins to
grumble when she asks for a reasonable sum to allow her to keep things
going decently. Remarks pass, lectures are delivered, faces frown, and
frowning faces don't go well with halos.

Why will young girls leave it to their imagination to find out what
married life is? Why do they not consult and listen to the advice of
married lady friends, choosing those who are happy, of course?

They would hear the voice of common-sense.

'If you want your husband to love you and be happy, my dear,' some old
stager will tell her, 'follow _Punch's_ advice--feed the brute. Never
expect him to be loving while he is hungry. The way to his heart is
through the portion of his anatomy that lies just under it.'

Another will say to her: 'Don't start married life by keeping your house
on nothing a year, because your husband will find it quite natural, and
will get used to it.'

Let that girl frankly confess to her sweetheart that she is not an
angel, and the probability is that, if he is a man, he will say to her:
'Never mind the angels, dearie; be a woman: that's quite good enough for
me.'

CHAPTER XV

ACTRESSES SHOULD NOT MARRY

'Are you married?' once asked an English magistrate of an actress who
had been summoned for assault. She had flung a pot of cold cream in the
face of her manager.

'No, sir,' replied the lively lady, 'nor do I wish to be.'

'That is fortunate for your husband,' remarked the judge, who probably
had Irish blood in his veins.

The actress--I do not mean the mere woman on the stage--is made by her
profession unfit for matrimony. If she is fit for it, she is not, and
never will be, a great actress.

I know that you will at once tell me that Mr. and Mrs. Kendal and Mr.
and Mrs. Cyril Maude (Winifred Emery) have been married a good many
years and lived most happy lives together. I even imagine that you will
ea