g more. The kindly thought which
prompts them may be as transient as their bloom. Three or four men
serenade girls on summer nights because they love to hear themselves
sing. Books, and music, and sweets, which convention decrees are the
only proper gifts for the unattached, may be sent to any girl, without
affecting her indifference to furniture advertisements and January sales
of linen.

If there is any actual courtship at the present time, the girl does just
as much of it as the man. Her dainty remembrances at holiday time have
little more meaning than the trifles a man bestows upon her, though the
gift latitude accorded her is much wider in scope.

[Sidenote: Furniture]

When a girl gives a man furniture, she usually intends to marry him, but
often merely succeeds in making things interesting for the girl who does
it in spite of her. The newly-married woman attends to the personal
belongings of her happy possessor with the celerity which is taught in
classes for "First Aid to the Injured."

One by one, the cherished souvenirs of his bachelor days disappear.
Pictures painted by rival fair ones go to adorn the servant's room,
through gradual retirement backward. Rare china is mysteriously broken.
Sofa cushions never "harmonise with the tone of the room," and the
covers have to be changed. It takes time, but usually by the first
anniversary of a man's marriage, his penates have been nobly weeded
out, and the things he has left are of his wife's choosing, generously
purchased with his own money.

Woe to the girl who gives a man a scarf-pin! When the bride returns the
initial call, that scarf-pin adds conspicuously to her adornment. The
calm appropriation makes the giver grind her teeth--- and the bride
knows it.

In the man's presence, the keeper of his heart and conscience will say,
sweetly: "Oh, my dear, such a dreadful thing has happened! That
exquisitely embroidered scarf you made for Tom's chiffonier is utterly
ruined! The colours ran the first time it was washed. You have no idea
how I feel about it--it was such a beautiful thing!"

The wretched donor of the scarf attempts consolation by saying that it
doesn't matter. It never was intended for Tom, but as every stitch in it
was taken while he was with her, he insisted that he must have it as a
souvenir of that happy summer. She adds that it was carefully washed
before it was given to him, that she has never known that kind of silk
to fade, and that someth