In a society so constituted, what a delightful opening there is for a young man.  He would have to waltz perfectly, play tennis fairly, the latest novel would suffice for literary attainments; billiards, shooting, and hunting, would not come in amiss, for he must not be considered a useless being by men; not that women are much influenced by the opinion of men in their choice of favourites, but the reflex action of the heart, although not so marked as that of the stomach, exists and must be kept in view, besides a man who would succeed with women, must succeed with men; the real Lovelace is loved by all.  Like gravitation, love draws all things.  Our young man would have to be five feet eleven, or six feet, broad shoulders, light brown hair, deep eyes, soft and suggestive, broad shoulders, a thin neck, long delicate hands, a high instep.  His nose should be straight, his face oval and small, he must be clean about the hips, and his movements must be naturally caressing.  He comes into the ball-room, his shoulders well back, he stretches his hand to the hostess, he looks at her earnestly (it is characteristic of him to think of the hostess first, he is in her house, the house is well-furnished, and is suggestive of excellent meats and wines).  He can read through the slim woman whose black hair, a-glitter with diamonds, contrasts with her white satin; an old man is talking to her, she dances with him, and she refused a young man a moment before.  This is a bad sign; our Lovelace knows it; there is a stout woman of thirty-five, who is looking at him, red satin bodice, doubtful taste.  He looks away; a little blonde woman fixes her eyes on him, she looks as innocent as a child; instinctively our Lovelace turns to his host.  “Who is that little blonde woman over there, the right hand corner?” he asks.  “Ah, that is Lady ——.”  “Will you introduce me?” “Certainly.”  Lovelace has made up his mind.  Then there is a young oldish girl, richly dressed; “I hear her people have a nice house in a hunting country, I will dance with her, and take the mother into supper, and, if I can get a moment, will have a pleasant talk with the father in the evening.”

In manner Lovelace is facile and easy; he never says no, it is always yes, ask him what you will; but he only does what he has made up his mind it is his advantage to do.  Apparently he is an embodiment of all that is unselfish, for he knows that after he has helped himself, it is advisable to help some one else, and thereby make a friend who, on a future occasion, will be useful to him.  Put a violinist into a room filled with violins, and he will try every one.  Lovelace will put each woman aside so quietly that she is often only half aware that she has been put aside.  Her life is broken; she is content that it should be broken.  The real genius for love lies not in getting into, but getting out of love.

* * * * *

I have noticed that there are times when every second woman likes you.  Is love, then, a magnetism which we sometimes possess and exercise unconsciously, and sometimes do not possess?