have one thing in common. They want to do their own hunting. It gives them a sense of power to think they have won out by sheer strength and will.

    The truth about this is that no man ever won a woman who was actually difficult to get, and found it worth the effort afterwards. What real man ever liked kissing a girl who didn’t want to be kissed? Love has got to be mutual. Your lover is frequently more interested in being loved than in loving. And the trump cards are always the woman’s. These grown-up boys of ours are shy and self-depreciatory in love, and they run like deer when they think they are not wanted. So the woman has to play a double game, and gets blamed for guile when it is only wisdom. Her instinct is to run, partly because she is afraid of love and partly because she has to appear to be pursued. But she has to limp a bit, and sit down and look back rather wistfully, and in the end of course she goes lame entirely and is overtaken.

    This is the same instinct which makes the pheasant hen feign a broken wing.

    There is a wonderful type of woman, however, who goes as straight to the man she loves as a homing pigeon to its loft.

    Taking, then, the three classes of men in the throes of the disease of love, we have the following symptoms, diagnosis and prognosis.

    First. The average lover. Temperature

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    remains normal, with slight rise in the evenings. Continues to attend to business. Feeling of uneasiness if called by endearing names over office ’phone. Regular diet, but smokes rather too much. Anxiety strongly marked as to how his income will cover a house and garage in the country, adding the cost of his commutation ticket, and shows tendency to look rather wistfully into toy shop-windows before Christmas.

    Diagnosis: Normal love.

    Prognosis: Probably permanent condition.

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