Then the Blade gambles; but over the gambling of the Blade it is well to draw a veil—­a partially translucent and coquettish veil, through which we can see the thing dimly, and enhanced in its enormity.  You must patronise the Turf, of course, and have money on horses, or you are no Blade at all, but a mere stick.  The Harrow Blade has his book on all the big races in the calendar; and the great and noble game of Nap—­are not Blades its worshippers wherever the sun shines and a pack of cards is obtainable?  Baccarat, too.  Many a glorious Blade has lost his whole term’s pocket-money at a single sitting at that noble game.  And the conversation of the Blade must always be brilliant in the extreme, like the flashing of steel in the sunlight.  It is usually cynical and worldly, sometimes horrible enough to make a governess shudder, but always epigrammatic.  Epigrams and neat comparisons are much easier to make than is vulgarly supposed.  “Schoolmasters hang about the crops of knowledge like dead crows about a field, examples and warnings to greedy souls.”  “Marriage is the beginning of philosophy, and the end is, ’Do not marry.’” “All women are constant, but some discover mistakes.”  “One is generally repentant when one is found out, and remorseful when one can’t do it again.”  A little practice, and this kind of thing may be ground out almost without thinking.  Occasionally, in your conversation with ladies, you may let an oath slip. (Better not let your aunt hear you.) Apologise humbly at once, of course.  But it will give them a glimpse of the lurid splendour of your private life.

And that brings us to the central thing of the Blade’s life, the eternal Feminine!  Pity them, be a little sorry for them—­the poor souls cannot be Blades.  They must e’en sit and palpitate while the Blade flashes.  The accomplished Blade goes through life looking unspeakable wickedness at everything feminine he meets, old and young, rich and poor, one with another.  He reeks with intrigue.  Every Blade has his secrets and mysteries in this matter—­remorse even for crimes.  You do not know all that his handsome face may hide.  Even he does not know.  He may have sat on piers and talked to shop-girls, kissed housemaids, taken barmaids to music halls, conversed with painted wickedness in public places—­nothing is too much for him.  And oh! the reckless protestations of love he has made, the broken promises, the broken hearts!  Yet men must be Blades, though women may weep; and every Blade must take his barmaid to a music hall at least once, even if she be taller than himself.  Until then his manhood is not assured.

Just one hint in conclusion.  A Blade who collects stamps, or keeps tame rabbits, or eats sweets, oranges, or apples in the streets, or calls names publicly after his friends, is no Blade at all, but a boy still.  So, with our blessing, he swaggers on his way and is gone.  A Don Juan as fresh as spring, a rosebud desperado.  May he never come upon just cause for repentance!