Bellefonte, Pa., March 31, 1916.
Governor's Lady
A Novelization of
Alice Bradley’s Play
By Gertrude Stebenson
Illustrations From Photographs of
the Stage Production
blication Rights
Copyright, S13, (Publica on Rights Reserved)
[Continued from last week.]
The hot blood surged up into Hayes’
face. He was aghast at this peep into
the soul of the woman he had thought
was tender and dear and sweet. Her
complete disregard of Mrs. Slade en-
raged him.
“So this is what Slade has done!”
His fists were clinched. “This is what
he’s after. This is what you want.
I'm not surprised,” he went on, bit-
terly. “It was always in you.”
“Yes,” she met this accusation, an
angry light in her eyes. “It was al-
ways in me. I always had to have
everything, be everything. I can’t
stay here and be a nobody. We're
getting horribly poor. If we look pros-
perous, it’s because nothing is paid
for. When I was a child I always
had to lead all the little games.” She
was talking rapidly, earnestly. “Then
when I grew up there was only one
leader here—Katherine Strickland,
and after there was never but one
woman left this place and did the
things Fve done and made the suc-
cesses I've made, and now—to come
back here—and settle down! When
Im Mrs. Slade Ill have the life I'm
after—money and power and Europe—
the world.”
“Don’t forget Slade,” came sarcas- |
tically from Hayes.
Slade,”
“Don’t forget
to live with him, a man who has lived
all his life with another woman—
,who—"
“Don’t!” she commanded.
only marrying me for a—a sort of
housekeeper.” :
“You'll be his wife just the same.” i
Every word was a sting.
“Yes—you’ll have your revenge,”
Katherine answered quietly, more to
herself than to him. Her voice
dropped wearily. “Xvery time he
kisses me—every time he comes into |
the room. But I'l! gei used to him,
I suppose. Women get used to that
sort of thing.”
“Yes, and then go to the devil! I'll
tell you what I think of you,” he
stormed. “You're a bad woman.
You're as rotten as they make them.
She Hesitated in Bewildered Fashion.
There’s no type so low. You're bad
to the marrow. London and Washing-
ton and Paris have done for you.
You've butterflied all over the world
till you're a heartless jade, junketing
about from one embassy to another
with all your pretty little cheating
tricks and not a decent thought in
your head.”
“I won't listen,” she gasped, amazed
at his denunciation of her.
“You will listen!”
“Don’t, oh, don’t say such things, .
Bob,” she pleaded.
“Why not?” he demanded. “You
who plan to do such a devilish thing
in the eyes of God and of men, can
You be afraid tc hear what it really is
you plan? You will listen!”
He took a step nearer. He caught
her roughly by the shoulders. He
buried his .lips into the soft tendrils
of hair around her ear as he almost
shouted: “You are going to rob a poor
little woman—step intc her house and
snatch away her husband—and the
only excuse you can offer is that you
want his money. Why don’t you rob
somebody outright and get away with
‘it? It’s more honest.”
Katherine shrank from him with
a cry of protest.
“And all the while you love me,”
be went on, passionately, “you love—
me—"
| “I don’t,” she sobbed.
“You lie!” he accused, hotly.
.. “Well, supposing I do—what can
and he came toward her. |
“You'll have Slade, too. You'll have |
“He is |
A
you give me?” she asked coolly.
“What can I give you?” he repeated.
Then with a look of utter loathing in
his eyes: “You contemptible little—"
and he flung her froia him.
“You’re going to sell what's mine
to the highest bidder,” he panted.
“But Slade’s not divorced yet, aud
before you get out of this dirty mire
you'll regret it. You’ll find yourself
80 deep in scandal—"'
“I won’t,” Katherine protested, ve-
hemently. “I won’t have a scandal.”
rage turning into fury.
Katherine looked at him as if she
had been turned to stone. Then the
real significance of what he had said
:anned to a flame the rage that was
burning in her heart—rage at him—
at conditions—at everything! She
gripped her fingers around one of the
them among the blazing logs in the
fireplace.
laugh.
your insults,” and ehe fled from the
room.
Katherine did not go a moment too
door from the smoking-room swung
straggled in,
In her agitated condition, even Kath-
erine would have found it
meet these men.
wx-Governor Hibbard was in a par-
ticularly happy frame of mind. The
senator’s excellent viands and the sen-
ator’s choice wines and the senator's
Havanas had succeeded in making him
feel well satisfied with the world in
general and with Slade in particular.
His round face was flushed and his
string tie a trifle awry.
“Had a good time, senator,” he said,
removing his cigar, “but there wera
too many swallowtails here for me to-
night. When I was governor of the
state T never wore one. No, nor a plug
hat, either.”
“lI never were one, and I never
will,” seconded Colonel Smith, a typ-
| ical long, lean, lanky westerner, with
| the inevitable western cut beard and
hair a bit too long.
“Governor, you're right,” and Strick:
: land gave each man a resounding slap
| on the shoulder. “Colonel, stick to
| your guns. They’re a nuisance. Now,
| boys, forget your homes and your
trains. The others are all gone. Let
us, the ringleaders, adjourn tc the
dining-room and over one of my
punches—" ,
{ The governor patted his stomach
tenderly. The mention of the sena-
! tor’s punch was all that was necessary
to weaken his desire to catch a train.
“Ah! Strickland’s punch! I'm with
you.”
| “Now, gentlemen,” interrupted Mer-
i ritt in a business-like manner, “before
we split up tonight it’s understood
we're all Slade men?”
“All Slade men!” was the unani-
mous shout from the colonel, the ex-
Governor Hunt, pious old Pop Hart
and Ingram.
“And we're preparing to cope with
Slade’s domestic trouble should it
come up, and it will,” went on Mer-
ritt.
“The devil, Strick!” broke in the
colonel. “Can’t it be patched up un-
tl after election?”
“No, gentlemen.” The senator was
unctuous but firm. “We must take
Slade as we find him or—drop him.
We're in the hands of a peculiar and
dominant personality. We can’t make
these big fellows to order.”
plained Hibbard, throwing the stub
of his cigar into the fireplace, “is why
they can’t get on together.”
“Take it from me, gentlemen, it’s
her fault,” exclaimed Merritt, as much
| in favor of Slade as he ha¢ previously
been opposed to him, now that Fannie
was appeased with the money for her
trip to Europe.
“She’s preparing to desert him |
now,” Strickland assured them.
irrevocable.”
“Well, we can’t blame him for be-
ing deserted,” agreed Hibbard.
“You bet we can’t!
serted me,” declared the colonel with
an attempt at facetiousness, “and she
| didn’t do it a day too soon, either.
I've gone right ahead ever since.”
“Now, then,” went on the industri-
ous Merritt, “three of us own papers.
These are our points: Mrs. Slade is
—er—er—a woman who has no sympa-
thy with her husband—shuns public
life—is never seen—refused even to
see me. And no sympathy for him,
don’t forget that.”
“Yep! Just like my wife,” grunted
the colonel.
“l don’t see how the public can
: blame him,” declared Hibbard.
| “They can’t,” asserted Hart,
“Why, she’s a semi-invalid,” amend-
| ed Strickland. .
“My wife hasn't seen her out since
she drove him out of the house five
weeks ago,” declared Hart.
“Good! We'll use that,” exclaimed
Merritt, eagerly. “A semi-invalid—
when she’s ready to be moved she
will be taken away at her own request.
I'll publish it myself. I'll start the ball
a-rolling. Why, gentlemen, the world
ought to pity that man.”
Hayes had stood the conversation
as long as he could.
“Do you realize that you're attack-
ing this woman unjustly?” 1 . broke
in, walking into the middle of the
group.
“This is not at all true.”
“You keep out of this game,” warned
Strickland. ‘
“Well, boys, we're all agreed,” de-
clared Merritt. “It's one for all,
then—" :
“And all for one,” added Hibbard,
excitedly.
“It’s
“They’ll say he’s your lover,” kis
lovely roses at her belt and crushed |
it to a pulp. Then she ripped them
from her gown—his roses—and threw ,
She turned to him with a bitter
“I'm through with you—and
soon, for scarcely had the folding
doors closed bebind her when the |
open, and with noisy talk the few re-
maining members of tii» dinner party
ifficult. to !
regain her composure sufiiciently to
“What I can’t understand,” com-'
My wife de- |
—
“Hip! Hip!” began Merritt, when
the door opened and the hutler an-
nounced:
“Mrs. Slade.”
The hurrah that had been on each
man’s lips died a sudden death. The)
looked at each other in consternation.
“Mrs. Slade!” gasped
“Whew!”
The eyes turned toward the door
saw a tiny, gray-garbed woman, with
' piade’s Eyes Darkened and an Ugly
Scowl Appeared on His Face.
great, questioning brown eyes, uhesi- |
tating in bewildered fashion as =he
lound herself confronted by a room-
« ful of men.
basque and full skirt was dowdy and
badly cut, in marked contrast to the
fashionable, clinging gowns of the
women who had graced the room a
short time previous. Her white gloves
were a fraction too short to meet her
short sleeves, and left exposed thin
arms and pointed elbows. But the ten-
der face, with its sweetly expressive
mouth, was unchanged. The lovely
eyes were more appealing, as filled
with wistful shyness. they gazed about
the room,
“I'm afraid it's a little late for me
(0 come,” she managed to say, as the
senator came up to her with out
stretched hand.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,”
the senator assured her with an ur-
bane smile. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Slade.”
“Why, my dear madame,” and Mer-
ritt greeted her effusively, “I'm glad
to know that the reporis to the sena-
tor have been exaggerated. Your
health is now—er—"
“Oh, I never felt better in my life,
sir,” Mary declared, puzzled that he
should ask such a question.
Hayes hastened to the little wom-
an’s side,
“Oh, Rob,” she exclaimed, relieved
lo see a familiar face. As she turned
. to Hayes, Slade appeared at the smok-
ing-room door, and as he recognized
the dowdy little figure his eyes dark-
ened and an angry scowl appeared on
his face. Strickland saw the expres-
sion and hastened to urge the men to
follow him into the dining-room.
CHAPTER VIII.
As the men filed out, Mary turned
to meet her husband’s angry eyes.
“Well, Dan, I'm here,” and she
looked pleadingly up into the unin-
viting face.
“I've given in,” she went on. “It’s
been a struggle, but I'm here. Why,
I've been thinking all this evening,
. while I was gettin’ dressed, I'd give
a dollar to see the look on your face
when you saw me here, Dan, and
. know that you got your own way.
' Dan—TI've—well—I've given in, fa-
ther.” And, turning to Rob with an
: expectant little smile, “Do I look all
right, Rob?”
“I think you do,”
gravely.
“Will you take Mrs. Slade home,
Robert?” Slade broke in.
“It’s very late,” Hayes pleaded as
ae put his hand lovingly on the little
| woman's shoulder.
“Yes, I know it is,” Mary agreed,
still not realizing what a fiasco her
first attempt to enter into social life
was. “I’ve been outside for half an
aour—just tryin’.to make up my mind,
but as long as you're here yet—why—"
“There aren't any other ladies pres-
ant,” Hayes tried to explain, “and I
think perhaps—"
“You'd better go,” Slade finished
lor him, but not in his conciliatory
tone.
“But you don't understand,” Mary
>bjected. “He doesn’t understand,”
she turned to Hayes in a perplexed
way. “My being here tonight means
ve given in,” and she looked up
searchingly into her husband’s forbid-
ling face. “I'm going out with you
svery night, all the time, whenever
you want me, balls, parties, dinners,
everything.”
“Will you see Mrs. Slade to her car-
riage?” Slade turned to Bob, ignor-
Ing his wife’s detaining hand.
“Yes, but,” Mary began to object.
“It’s necessary that I join these gen-
tlemen,” Slade informed her coldly.
“Take her at once,” he commanded
Hayes.
Hayes started toward the door.
“Call me when you're ready, Mrs.
Slade. I'll wait in the hall,” and he
disappeared.
Slade thrust his hands deep into his
pockets and looked at his wife in a
puzzled way. She was nervously!
pulling off her gloves and beginning
to realize that her visit was, for some
unexplained reason, scarcely the suc-
cess she had planned it to be.
“In God’s name, what did you come
here for, Mary?” Slade finally de-
manded,
Hayes replied,
Merritt.
Her gown with its tight !
{ “What did I come here for?” she
| repeated blankly. “What did I come
here for? Why, to please you. 1
thought you’d be glad. 1 just can’t
| stand it with you living out of the
i house, Dan. Lord, I haven’t slept a
. wink since you left. Aren’t you miss-
ing me?” and her voice trembled just
| the least bit.
{| “Oh, Dan. It's all over now, aint
| It, our tiff?’ she began eagerly, catch-
! ing his arm impulsively and pressinz
her face against his coatsleeve, Kkiss-
ing the unresponsive broadcloth again
and again.
go home together. It’ll all be different
after this, and I'll see you at the break-
fast table mornings now,” she finished
joyfully.
“Dan,” she began again, “I don’t be-
lieve you’ve had a decent cup of cof-
fee since you left home. I'd like to
maze you a cup now, myself,” and
ator’s library as if she thought there
to brew a cup of coffee right then and
there.
calling him by the name of the old,
ting his arm levingly, tenderly. “Mad
at me yet?” she questioned.
of her hand on his arm, and found it
necessary to turn away from the face
that was so sweet and penitent.
“No,” he stammered, “I’m not mad
at you, only this is no place to talk
about our troubles.”
“Well, we'll go along home,” she
suggested.
“No, I can’t come now. You'd bet-
ter let Rcb take you home,” and he
started for the door.
his arm,
“I've got to know what the matter
vehemently.
“Very well, Mary, as far as my
plans go, I've arranged my life differ-
ently.”
“Differently? Differently? Haven't
I given in?”
“It's too late now. I'm sorry to
say this, but you force me.”
“Wait a minute, Dan.” She drew a
long breath, as if nerving herself for
ag crdeal. “You're going to say some-
thing dreadful. Before you begin I
want to say that I'll do anything to
get things back just the same as they
were before—anything. There's noth-
ing you could ask me I won't do—
nothing! There! Now! Now go on,”
and she sank weakly into a chair.
“Look here,” Slade was cruelly ab-
rupt. “This separation is permanent.
Nothing’s going to change it.”
“Separation?’ She gave him a
blank, amazed stare. “Why, Dan,
who’s talking about separation? We
can’t be separated.”
“We can be—we are. When I left
| you that night it was for good and
all, Mary. We can’t get along togeth-
er and I've made up my mind to it.
It’s settled.”
“You mean to say you haven't
missed yer home? You haven't want-
ed me to give in? You mean what’s
happened is for the best?”
“Yes,” he answered icily.
Mary gazed at him in bewilderment.
{ ‘You're not the man I talked to five
weeks ago. I don’t know you. It
must be the people about you—or
it's—"*
Like a flash the possibility of an-
other woman came into her mind.
But she dismissed it as quickly as it
had come. She would not insult him
—or herself—or their love by sucha
suggestion.
“l am another man from the one
you married,” Slade agreed, “but you
wouldn’t see it.”
“Is it my fault that I married a man
who's turned into somebody else?”
Mary argued, fighting, fighting for her
life, her happiness—for him. “I mar-
ried you, Dan. I married a poor young
fellow who was hard worked and I
helped him along. We started fair,
Dan, but this ain’t fair,” lapsing more
and more into poor grammar and dia-
lect as her excitement rose. “You got
beyond me, but it was because I
worked and saved the pennies for you,
while you went out and got helped and
learned. Cooking didn’t learn me. I
didn’t even know I was behind the
times or unsatisfactory until one day
you—"
Slade nervously assured himself
that all the doors were tightly closed.
He suppressed the twinge of shame
for his stealthy action by assuring
himself that it was not fear—simply
business caution. To his cowardly
wrenching of his wife’s heart he gave
no thought at all. It was a move in
the game. He made it as dispassion-
ately as one moves a chessman on
the board. Mary was looking at him
with a new light in her brown eyes
as he turned to her again. She spoke
again,
“It was all right until you made
that lucky deal, Dan, with the money
me out from behind my stove and
tried to make me a parlor ornament,
I'd hate to think where you'd a been
today, if yer had. Five years ago you!
took all the work I loved to do out of
my hands and now you're punishing
me because I did work.”
“No, I'm not,” Slade remonstrated,
moved in spite of himself by her
simple, eloquent argument.
“Yes, yuh are, Dan, you're just as
good as whipping me for layin’ up
the foundation of every dollar you've
got and here I am at my age, sitting
in idleness in a great big barn of a
house with my job gone,” she finished
pathetically.
“Well, that's life,” declared Slade
unfeelingly.
“Then it's a pretty poor thing,” and
she shook her head sadly, No, it ain’t
life. It shouldn’t be. There's some-
thing wrong in a man’s getting sa
far up he can’t live with the wife he
“We're making up; we’ll |
she looked reflectively around the sen- |
“Come on home, father,” she urged, |
old days, when they had both dreamed |
of little ones in their home, and pat- |
I helped you to make and you pulled:
might possibly be some opportunity |
married because she cooked and
worked instead of playing.
just!”
“Oh, what's the use, Mary?” Slade
sighed wearily, as though he, and
uot she, were the injured one.
“Dan,” Mary lowered her voice and
looked at him earnestly. “If I brought
up a girl today and we were poor,
would you advise me to say, ‘Take
piano lessons, learn languages, keep
up to the times, never mind doing
your share or being economical? *
“I'm not going to argue,” Slade re-
plied loftily.
“Yuh can’t, Dan,” declared Mary
with conviction. “There ain’t no ar-
gument. It's one-sided. Suppose I'd
changed and you'd stayed the same,
what would all your friends say?
‘Poor Slade, his wife’s crazy—or bad—
probably bad.’ No, yer can’t get me
to see it!”
“Well, whether you see it or not,
that’s just where we stand. Youd
better let me call Robert to take you
home.”
“Wait, Dan,” she pleaded. “Will
you see me again at home, if I go
now?”
There was a tense pause. Slade did
not reply.
“I see, I see.” She dropped wearily
i into a chair and suddenly the tears
Slade wirced under the gentle touch |
started in her eyes.
“Please, Mary, remember where you
are.” Slade was a trifle less cold.
“I'll let you know my plans. All you
have to do is to abide by them. You
say you'll do anything for me, that’s
all I ask you to do, abide by my plans.
I wish you much happiness, the best
of everything, a life beyond anything
you ever had,” and he was rapidly
| being carried away by his own mag-
; nanimity.
Mary started after him, clutching at |
“I shall always think of
you with the greatest affection,” he
concluded, taking on a patronizing air
| and trying to make himself believe
is now—I must—I must,” she declared |
lone real friend. That’s me.
his own empty sentiments. His self-
esteem had been severely torn in the
last few moments of his wife’s talk.
He had almost caught a glimpse of
himself as he really was, but he was
regaining what he was pleased to con-
sider control of himself.
“Well, you've conquered.” Mary
dabbed her eyes and nose and tried
to muster up sufficient courage to
meet the situation. “I give in. I'll
abide by your plans. Whatever you
want me to do,” her voice broke into
a sob, “tell Robert—I'll do it.” The
tears continued to fall in spite of
her. Her heart was breaking. Her
shoulders drooped pitifully, yet she
felt a certain sad joy in acceding to
his wishes. There was a kind of hap-
piness in sacrificing herself to please
him.
She began to pull her gloves, jerk-
ily, clumsily, finding some relief in
having something to do.
She was
“l Will Have It,” Stormed Slade.
struggling hard not to break down—
not to cling wildly to him and beg
him not to give her up.
She steadied herself finally,
“Well, Dan, there's one thing
you've got to be careful of—now that
[ won't be round to hold you back—
now that I won't be with you any
more,” her voice quavering. “I'm the
only one who tells you all the truth.
Everyone else is afraid of you.
“Don’t let them flatter you,” she
said, with more maternal than wifely
solicitude. “They can. I found that
out. Father! You're an awful fool
with your money. You never had but
Youll
{find it out.”
“I'll look out,” Slade promised, and
{there was a note of relief in his tone
‘at her change of attitude.
. “Do you want me to go away from
jour house right off?” Mary asked, as
|if the idea of actual leaving had just
{occurred to her.
“Oh!” Slade hesitated. The details
dla seem rather cold-blooded. “But
it'll be better when it’s all settled—"
© “All right.” Mary's voice was pa.
tient and colorless. “I'd like to feel
I was goin’ where you wanted me to
jso=-wherever tis—and—doin’ what
yer wanted me to—"
“Thank you, Mary,” and the surface
politeness seemed strangely out of
place from this man who was turning
ithe wife of his youth adrift. “Of
|course it'll be arranged that you get
the best of the divorce. I'll attend to
ithat. You simply leave it to me—"
“A divorce,” interrupted Mary. Her
eves widened with #mazement, and
It ain’t
. create the impression that he is
-—
she came up to him, her mouth open
with surprise. “A divorce?”
- “A divorce—why, yes—a separation
—what’s the difference?’ Slade was
stooping now to deceive the little
{ woman, who was herself the soul of
truth and honor,
“What?” the woman gasped.
“A separation is the same thing as
a divorce,” and he lied shamefully.
“Is it?”
“It will be done quietly,” he went
on.
“Why, Dan Slade!” She could not
believe her ears. “Give up your name?
Why, you might as well ask me to
give up my eyes. I've got it now—
you're looking for a younger. You
can’t have a divorce, Dan!” All her
tears were dry now and a new fiber
in her voice.
“I will have it,” stormed Slade, en-
raged because her mood had changed
at the word “divorce,” just when he"
had been congratulating himself that
the difficulty was all nicely adjusted.
“That’s all there is to it. I will have
it? »
“Anything else, Dan. Anything else
—not a divorce. You mustn’t ask me
to take the name I've carried all these
years and throw it away. I'm giving
in, but leave my name. I'm givin’
up everything else.”
“You might as well stop!” he warned
her threateningly. “You're going
now, tonight, the first train East to-
morrow. Go where you like, see what
you like, do what you like, spend what
you like. To what you have I'll add
a million more, but I'm going to have
this done in my own way.”
“Oh, Dan!” she shrank from his
wrath. “I'm going home.”
“No, you're not, until this thing is
settled. My mind’s made up. I don’t
want to quarrel with you, and I should
if you fought me.”
“I won’t let you. You can’t do it.”
“I can’t do it, eh?” The word can’t
was like a red rag to a bull. He stood
over her with darkening face and
shaking fist. “Don’t you know better
than to stand there and tell me that?
Have I got to hear it from you?
Haven't you seen what happened to
man, woman and child, all of ’em, who
ever told me that to my face? I'll
do it! T’ll do it now, by God!” and he
strode angrily up and down the room.
The angrier her husband became,
the calmer and more determined was
Mary Slade.
“Dan,” she began very gently, but
firmly, “you’re stubborn, but you ain’t
a bit more stubborn than I am when
I'm right, and now I am.
“You can go ahead. Do all you like,
but this time you won’t conquer, be-
cause I'm going to fight you, father.
' I'm going to fight you, Dan.”
Then with head proudly erect, she
walked to the door, threw it open and
, cried, just a bit hysterically in spite
of her effort to keep her voice steady:
“Robert! You can take me home
now, please!” She turned back just
once to the man gazing moodily into
the fire.
“I'm goin’ to fight yer, Dan!”
[Continued next week. ]
HAVE LAUGH ON SNOBERLY
His Fellow Members of the Club Like-
ly to Indulge in Their Merri-
ment for Some Time.
Young Snoberly is very anxious to
a
don” at French. A few evenings ago,
! at the club, he took a French comic
| paper, and for half an hour he pre-
tended to be absorbed in its contents.
Every once in a while he would smile
teebly, as if he had been carried away
by the jokes, and say, audibly, “Bon,
tres bon!”
There were several gentlemen at
‘the adjoining table who had been no-
ticing Snoberly’'s antics. At last one
of them said: “See that Snoberly over
there pretending to read that French
paper? I am certain that he does not
understand French. He is just doing
that to impress the people with his
knowledge as a linguist.”
“l suppose he must understand
French,” replied one of the party.
“I'll bet a bottle of wine that he
doesn’t, and I'll prove it.”
“I'll take the bet.”
The gentleman who had made the bet
walked quietly over to Snoberly, and
said, “Monsieur, quelle heure est-i1?”
(“What o’clock is it, sir?”)
Young Snoberly smiled a Parisian
smile, and gracefully handed over the
paper!—London Tit-Bits.
Leap-Year Advice.
Here is the sage counsel which Miss
Lucille Pugh, feminist, suffragist and
lawyer—anud also quite pretty—is
quoted as offering to all bachelor girls,
absolutely without fee, for their leap
year guidance, says the New York
Evening Sun.
“Propose to the man of your choice,
but look up his rating first.”
Short and to the point. By the re-
course to Bradstreet’s it is argued that
women may avoid unhappiness fre-
quently resulting from penniless mar-
riages. Good!—as far as it goes. But
what eminent counselor of the other
sex will not stand forth to aid his
trembling brethren? Such a one
might well advise:
“Accept the woman who proposes
to you if you like her, but first look
up her rating in the domestic arts.”
One prerequisite is as fair as the
other, For the woman: Do not mar-
ry for money, but love where money
is; for the man: Do not marry to
provide yourself with a cook, but
while marrying you might as well
marry someone who can make out of
the place you live in a home. Some-
thing more than a liberal income is
required to produce “comfortable cir-
cumstances” for two.
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