hole current of my being. I was
supremely happy and looked at life through spectacles different from any I
ever had before. Life had a roseate hue that it had never before
possessed. Music was sweeter, flowers were prettier and pictures brighter
than ever before. I seemed to be walking around in poetry and at the same
time living up near heaven. While all this was true, I was at the same
time miserable--a sort of ecstatic misery. It took away my appetite, made
sleep impossible and filled my life with wavering hopes and fears. The
suspense was killing me! At the first opportunity I threw myself,
metaphorically, at her feet, and unburdened myself about in this manner:--

"Darling, you are my love and my life and I cannot, and will not, live
without you. What is your answer? Make up your mind before I do something
desperate. Don't let me over-persuade you, loved one, but if you think I
can make you happy, say the word. My life is in your hands. If you spurn
me I shall pass out of your life forever. Dear one, what will you do?
Pray, speak quickly!"

She was listening attentively and I repeated the question that I thought
would soon seal my fate: "_What will you do?_"

My charmer gave vent to a little chuckle and said: "_Suppose we mildew?_"

That was the proverbial "last straw" with me. Or to multiply similes, my
love was blighted like a tomato plant in an unseasonable frost, and I
vowed that since I was brought to my senses I would never make love to
another woman.

A few months later I had forgotten this incident. I happened one day to be
reading a book entitled _Ideals_ which gave much information on the
subject of life-mating. As the reader may infer I was still a great
reader. In fact I was a veritable walking-encyclopedia filled with a mass
of information, most of which was of no earthly account. The book in
question had a great deal to say concerning soul affinities, why marriages
were successes or failures, and gave rules for selecting a sweetheart who
would, of course, later bear a closer relationship. The writer thought
somewhere there was a soul attuned to our own, and that sooner or later we
would get in unison. This sounded nice and impressed me favorably, as
most new things did. I recalled that Genevieve was short on the affinity
part of the deal. With the aid of the book, I figured out that my ideal
was a beautiful blonde with soulful eyes, into whose liquid depths I
should some day feastingly gaze. I mad