Nothing strengthens a woman’s self-confidence like a proposal.  One is a wonder, two a superfluity, and three an epidemic.  Four are proof of unusual charm, five go to the head, and it is a rare girl whom six or seven will not permanently spoil.

[Sidenote:  Disillusion]

To the girl fed upon fiction, the first proposal comes in the nature of a shock.  Disillusion follows as a matter of course.  Men, evidently, do not read fiction, or at least do not profit by the valuable hints to be found in any novel.

A small book entitled:  How Men Propose, was eagerly sought by young women who were awaiting definite experience.  This was discovered to be a collection of proposals carefully selected from fiction.  It was done with care and discernment, but was not satisfying.  The natural inference was that the actual affairs were just like those in the book.

[Sidenote:  “In Books?”]

Nothing can exceed the grace and tenderness with which men propose—­in books.  Such chivalrous worship, such pleasing deference is accorded—­in books!  Such pretty pleading, such knightly vows of eternal allegiance, as are always found—­in books!

The hero of a few years back was wont to make his offer on his knees.  He also haunted the home of the beloved maiden, deeming himself well repaid for five hours wait if he had a fleeting glimpse of her at the window.  Torn hair was frequent, and refusal drove men to suicide and madness.

The young women who were the cause of all this trouble were never more than eighteen or twenty years of age.  Mature spinsters of twenty-five figured as envious deterrents in the happy affair.  Many a story-book marriage has been spoiled by the jealousy of the wrinkled rival of twenty-five.

[Sidenote:  The First Proposal]

The violent protestations of the lover in the novel were indeed something to be awaited with fear and trembling.  With her anticipations aroused by this kind of reading and her eagerness whetted by interminable years of waiting, Mademoiselle receives her first offer of marriage.

She is in doubt, at first, as to whether it is a proposal.  It seems like some dreadful mistake.  Where is the courtly manner of the lover in the book?  What is the matter with this red-faced boy?  Where is the pretty pleading, the gracious speech?  Why should a lover stammer and confuse his verbs?

Mademoiselle recoils in disgust.  This, then, is what she has been waiting for.  It is not at all like the book.  Her lover is entirely different from other girls’ lovers—­so different that he is pathetic.

Her faith in the gospel of romance is sadly shaken, when the next experience is a great deal like the first.  No one, in the book, could doubt the lover’s meaning.  Yet in the halting sentences and confused metaphors of actual experience, there is sometimes much question as to what he really means.  A girl often has to ask a man if he has just proposed to her, that she may accept or refuse, in a gracious and proper way.