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A Pleasure is the direct opposite of a Platitude.

He is a clever man—­clever in some one particular way.  He is generally a man with many brilliant theories brilliantly brought forth.  He is ready to entertain any proposition.  He is ready to try any new field of human action.  He is sometimes sympathetic, more frequently antagonistic.  But my so-called Pleasures may not be forced under any one head which will accurately describe them as a class.  Indeed, each one is a class within himself; that is my reason for using so broad a term as Pleasures:  they are, in fact, Pleasures to me.  They are really necessary to my happiness—­not individually, but as an entirety.

Most of these men have been at some one time my lovers—­at least after a fashion.  Some of them are foolishly constant.  They are not foolish on account of their constancy—­a most commendable trait—­but because of their inability to know just when to make a display of their devotion.  The general run of lovers—­at least mine—­are distressingly inopportune.  This a woman, in spite of herself, deeply resents; it is so unpardonably stupid of a sensible man not to know just when to make known his tender passion.  Lovers seldom study the women they love.  They labor hard and plow straight on, in spite of any timid opposition from the other quarter; they are heedless of the future; they are eager to gain the prize, and often stride far beyond—­overstep the mark, which sometimes is but a mere shadow line.

Most women fail to understand why they are unable to retain their rejected lovers.  To me the explanation is plain.  The average woman has nothing to give her lover, when he asks the all-important question, but a few tender, meaningless words to environ her yes or no.  Of course, when the answer is yes, they both feed on the thought of marriage until its consummation.  But if she is forced to say no, it leaves her barren of any thing to offer in lieu of the affection demanded.  She is at once destituted of resources.  She has no mental reservoir out of which she may feed the man’s desire, and gently but effectually turn it into an intellectual channel of her own making and directing.  Therefore the man is lost to her—­be he Platitude or Pleasure.  She has made the fatal failure of neglecting to furnish—­and at once—­a sufficient amount of intellectual excitement to fascinate the man into lingering, and force him finally into a steadfast allegiance.  Women ought never insult their rejected lovers by asking them for their friendship.  Those things come, if come they can, of themselves.  It is such an ugly mistake to insist on giving every thing a name.  Emotions thrive so much better when they are nameless.  We rightly label poisons, but why should we label perfumes?  I love a touch of the vague and of the mysterious.  It is the mystery-man who wins the woman.  Direct courtships—­when found