Epileptics are morbidly sensitive, and reference to their malady must be avoided.  Victims are intensely suspicious, and a pitying look will reveal to them the fact that some outsider knows all about the jealously-guarded skeleton.  Resentment, distrust and misery follow such an exposure, for every innocent look is then translated into a contemptuous glance, and the victim detects slights undreamt of in any brain save his own.

Unless seizures are severe, no one should be called in; if they cause alarm, ask a discreet male neighbour to assist when necessary, leaving when the convulsions abate so that the victim is not aware of his presence.  Avoid the word “fit” and “epilepsy”, and if reference to the attack be necessary, refer to it as a “faint” or “turn”.

Living with a man liable to have a fit at inopportune times is a tremendous strain, and the soundest advice one can offer a woman thinking of marrying such a one is Punch’s—­“DON’T!”

We have painted the black side, but, tactfully managed, a neuropath will merge in the kindest of husbands, the most constant of lovers.  The wife need not be unhappy.  Tactless, masterful women will fail, but no one is more easily led, particularly in the way he should not go, than a neuropath.

A man with definite views of his own value will not be successful foil for “mother-in-lawing”, nor remain quiet under the interference of relatives, who should remember that well-meaning intentions do not justify meddling actions.

Many a neuropath led a useful life and gained success in a profession, solely because his wife tactfully kept him in the path, watched his health, prevented him frittering away his gifts in many pursuits or useless repining, and made home a real haven.

When the yolk seems unbearably heavy, the wife should remember her husband has to bear the primary, she only the reflected misery, for the limitations neuropathy puts on every activity and ambition, social and professional, are frightfully depressing.

In spite of his peevishness her husband may be trying hard to minimize his defects and be a reasonable, helpful companion.

  “Judge not the working of his brain,
  And of his heart thou can’st not see;
  What looks to thy dim eyes a stain
  In God’s pure light may only be
  A scar brought from some well-fought field,
  Where thou would’st only faint and yield.”

Magnify his virtues and be tenderly charitable to his many frailties, for he is “not as other men” and too well he knows it.  Love at its best is so complex that it easily goes awry, but death will one day dissolve all its complexity, and when, maybe after “many a weary mile”

  “The voice of him I loved is still,
  The restless brain is quiet,
  The troubled heart has ceased to beat
  And the tainted blood to riot”—­

it will comfort you to reflect that you did your duty and, to best the of your ability, fulfilled your solemn pledge to love and honour him.