“I shall dispose of my canary at once.  It goes to Miss Harriet Crane.”

“Now of all men there is one ye woman must not court:  ye married man.  Positively ye must not court such a man.  If he wishes to court ye, ye must make resistance to him with all ye soul; if you wish to court him, ye must resist yourself.  If he is a married man and happy, let him alone.  If he is married and unhappy, let him bear his lot and beat his wife.”

Marguerite’s eyes flashed.  “It is well the writer did not live in this age,” she thought.

“Ye men to court are three kinds:  first ye swain; second ye old bachelor; third ye widower.  Ye old bachelor is like ye green chimney of ye new house—­hard to kindle.  But ye widower is like ye familiar fireplace.  Ye must court according to ye kind.  Ye bachelor and ye widower are treated in ye big booke.”

“The swain is left,” said Marguerite.  “How and when is the swain to be courted?”

“Now ye beauty of ye swain is that ye can court him at all seasons of ye year.  Ye female bird will signal for ye mate only when ye woods are green; but even ye old maid can go to ye icy spinnet and drum wildly in ye dead of winter with ye aching fingers and ye swain mate will sometimes come to her out of ye cold.”

Marguerite was beginning to think that nearly every one treated in Lady Bluefields’ book was too advanced in years:  it was too charitable to the problems of spinsters.  “Where do the young come in?” she asked impatiently.

“Ye must not court ye young swain with ye food or ye wine.  That is for ye old bachelors and ye widowers to whom ye food and wine are dear, but ye woman who gives them not dear enough.  Ye woman gives them meat and drink and they give ye woman hope:  it is ye bargain:  let each be content with what each gets.  But if ye swain be bashful and ye know that he cannot speak ye word that he has tried to speak, a glass of ye wine will sometimes give him that missing word.  Ye wine passes ye word to him and he passes ye word to you:  and ye keep it!  When ye man is soaked with wine he does not know what he loves nor cares:  he will hug ye iron post in ye street or ye sack of feathers in ye man his bed and talk to it as though nothing else were dear to him in all ye world.  It is not ye love that makes him do this; it is ye wine and ye man his own devilish nature.  No; ye must marry with wine, but ye must court with water.  Ye love that will not begin with water will not last with wine.”

This did not go to the heart of the matter.  Marguerite turned over several pages.