things which his wife
deems it right and proper for him to know. And he is not unhappy, for it
isn't what he doesn't know that troubles a man, but what he knows he
doesn't know.

The masculine nature is less capable of concealment than the feminine.
Where men are frankly selfish, women are secretly so. Man's vices are
few and comprehensive; woman's petty and innumerable. Any man who is not
in the penitentiary has at most but three or four, while a woman will
hide a dozen under her social mask and defy detection.

Women are said to be fickle, but are they more so than men? A man's
ideal is as variable as the wind. What he thinks is his ideal of woman
is usually a glorified image of the last girl he happened to admire. The
man who has had a decided preference for blondes all his life, finally
installs a brown-eyed deity at his hearthstone. If he has been fond of
petite and coquettish damsels, he marries some Diana moulded on large
lines and unconcerned as to mice.

A man will ride, row, and swim with one girl and marry another who is
afraid of horses, turns pale at the mention of a boat, and who would
look forward to an interview with His Satanic Majesty with more ease and
confidence than to a dip in the summer sea.

[Sidenote: Portia and Carmen]

Theoretically, men admire "reasonable women," with the uncommon quality
which is called "common sense," but it is the woman of caprice, the
sweet, illogical despot of a thousand moods, who is most often and most
tenderly loved. Man is by nature a discoverer. It is not beauty which
holds him, but rather mystery and charm. To see the one woman through
all the changing moods--to discern Portia through Carmen's witchery--is
the thing above all others which captivates a man.

[Sidenote: The Dorcas Ideal]

Deep in his heart, man cherishes the Dorcas ideal. The old, lingering
notions of womanliness are not quite dispelled, but in this, as in
other things, nothing sickens a man of his pet theory like seeing it in
operation.

It may be a charming sight to behold a girl stirring cheese in the
chafing-dish, wearing an air of deep concern when it "bunnies" at the
sides and requires still more skill. It may also be attractive to see
white fingers weave wonders with fine linen and delicate silks, with
pretty eagerness as to shade and stitch.

But in the after-years, when his divinity, redolent of the kitchen,
meets him at the door, with hair dishevelled and fingers bandaged, it is