[Sidenote:  Three Weapons]

Woman has three weapons—­flattery, food, and flirtation, and only the last of these is ever denied her by Time.  With the first she appeals to man’s conceit, with the second to his heart, which is suspected to lie at the end of the oesophagus, rather than over among lungs and ribs, and with the third to his natural rivalry of his fellows.  But the pleasures of the chase grow beautifully less when age brings rheumatism and kindred ills.

Besides, may she not always be a chaperone?  When a political orator refers effectively to “the cancer which is eating at the heart of the body politic,” someway, it always makes a girl think of a chaperone.  She goes, ostensibly, to lend a decorous air to whatever proceedings may be in view.  She is to keep the man from making love to the girl.  Whispers and tender hand clasps are occasionally possible, however, for, tell it not in Gath! the chaperone was once young herself and at times looks the other way.

That is, unless she is the girl’s mother.  Trust a parent for keeping two eyes and a pair of glasses on a girl!  Trust the non-matchmaking mother for four new eyes under her back hair and a double row of ears arranged laterally along her anxious spine!  And yet, if the estimable lady had not been married herself, it is altogether likely that the girl would never have thought of it.

[Sidenote:  The Chaperone]

The reason usually given for chaperonage is that it gives the girl a chance to become acquainted with the man.  Of course, in the presence of a chaperone, a man says and does exactly the same things he would if he were alone with the maiden of his choice.  He does not mind making love to a girl in her mother’s presence.  He does not even care to be alone with her when he proposes to her.  He would like to have some chaperone read his letters—­he always writes with this intention.  At any time during the latter part of the month it fills him with delight to see the chaperone order a lobster after they have all had oysters.

Nonsense!  Why do not the leaders of society say, frankly:  “This chaperone business is just a little game.  Our husbands are either at the club or soundly asleep at home.  It is not nice to go around alone, and it is pathetic to go in pairs, with no man.  We will go with our daughters and their young friends, for they have cavaliers enough and to spare.  Let us get out and see the world, lest we die of ennui and neglect!” It is the chaperone who really goes with the young man.  She takes the girl along to escape gossip.

[Sidenote:  Behold his House!]

It is strange, when it is woman’s avowed object to make man happy, that she insists upon doing it in her own way, rather than in his.  He likes the rich, warm colours; the deep reds and dark greens.  Behold his house!

Renaissance curtains obscure the landscape with delicate tracery, and he realises what it might mean to wear a veil.  Soft tones of rose and Nile green appear in his drawing-room.  Chippendale chairs, upon which he fears to sit, invite the jaded soul to whatever repose it can get.  See the sofa cushions, which he has learned by bitter experience never to touch!  Does he rouse a quiescent Nemesis by laying his weary head upon that elaborate embroidery?  Not unless his memory is poor.