Not one whit; and doubtless for this reason, that whilst I enjoyed the piece I kept my eyes fixed on the title which had so taken my fancy.  If this be so, of what use is title at all?  The title of a book, the name of a dish, the name of a town—­of what consequence are all these when what one wants is to read the book, to eat the dish, and to see the town.

The comparison is a sophism.  Man becomes amorous through the senses, which, touch excepted, all reside in the head.  In love a beautiful face is a matter of the greatest moment.

A beautiful female body might well excite a man to carnal indulgence, even though the head were covered, but never to real love.  If at the moment of physical delight the covering were taken away, and a face of hideous, revolting ugliness disclosed, one would fly in horror, in spite of the beauties of the woman’s body.

But the contrary does not hold good.  If a man has fallen in love with a sweet, enchanting face, and succeeds in lifting the veil of the sanctuary only to find deformities there, still the face wins the day, atones for all, and the sacrifice is consummated.

The face is thus paramount, and hence it has come to be agreed that women’s bodies shall be covered and their faces disclosed; while men’s clothes are arranged in such a way that women can easily guess at what they cannot see.

This arrangement is undoubtedly to the advantage of women; art can conceal the imperfections of the face, and even make it appear beautiful, but no cosmetic can dissemble an ugly breast, stomach, or any other part of the man body.

In spite of this, I confess that the phenomerides of Sparta were in the right, like all women who, though they possess a fine figure, have a repulsive face; in spite of the beauty of the piece, the title drives spectators away.  Still an interesting face is an inseparable accident of love.

Thrice happy are they who, like Armelline, have beauty both in the face and body.

When I got home I was so fortunate as to find Margarita in a deep sleep.  I took care not to awake her, and went to bed with as little noise as possible.  I was in want of rest, for I no longer enjoyed the vigour of youth, and I slept till twelve.

When I awoke, Margarita told me that a handsome young man had called on me at ten o’clock, and that she had amused him till eleven, not daring to awake me.

“I made him some coffee,” said she, “and he was pleased to pronounce it excellent.  He would not tell me his name, but he will come again tomorrow.  He gave me a piece of money, but I hope you will not mind.  I don’t know how much it is worth.”

I guessed that it was the Florentine.  The piece was of two ounces.  I only laughed, for not loving Margarita I was not jealous of her.  I told her she had done quite right to amuse him and to accept the piece, which was worth forty-eight pauls.

She kissed me affectionately, and thanks to this incident I heard nothing about my having come home so late.