climb. True Love is a relic of the Victorian Age. It still exists, here and there, like the buffalo; but in the face of eugenics, feminism, and the growing masculine determination not to marry, it may some day have to take a place beside the Dinosaurus in the Public Museum. Falling in love consists merely in uncorking the imagination and bottling the common-sense. In the medley of love a man's soul sings a sonata, while his heart plays a waltz and his pulse beats to rag-time. Better be a strong man's "rib" than a weak man's "backbone." True love isn't the kind that endures through long years of absence, but the kind that endures through long years of propinquity. A man seldom thinks of marrying when he meets his ideal woman; he waits until he gets the marrying fever and then idealizes the first woman he happens to meet. Love is what tempts a man to tell foolish lies to a woman and a woman to tell the fool truth to a man. It took seven hundred guesses for Solomon to find out what kind of a wife he wanted; and even then he seems to have had his doubts. The only thing more astonishing than the length of time a man's love will subsist on nothing is the celerity with which it is surfeited the moment it has any encouragement to feed on. Even when a man knows that he wants to marry a woman, she has to prove it to him with a diagram before he is really convinced of it. A man is so apt to mistake his love of experiment for love of a woman that half the time he doesn't know which is which. Why is it that a man never thinks he has tasted the cup of joy unless he has splashed it all over himself, as though it were his morning bath? A man is so versatile that he can read his newspaper with one set of brain-cells while he carries on a conversation with his wife with another set. A girl hides her emotions under a veil of modesty, a spinster under a cloak of cynicism, a wife under a mantle of tact, and a widow under a cloud of mystery—and then women wonder why they are "misunderstood." Proposing is a sort of acrobatic feat, in