BOOK OF FLIRTS

CHAPTER ONE

Lo! wondrous are the workings of a man’s heart, my Daughter.

His love is a thing which riseth and falleth as the stock market; yea, like a football that goeth up, it descendeth swiftly.

Behold, when a man first meeteth a damsel, she pleaseth his eyes. Moreover, she is different from the girl before and affordeth a pleasant change. He adoreth her from afar and indulgeth in foolish pipe-dreams. He investeth in new cravats and is particular concerning his collars.

He calleth at first, timidly; he getteth on the good side of the family. He bringeth burnt offerings of expensive flowers and sweets from Huyler’s. He readeth the RubÁiyÁt unto her and inviteth her to meet his sister.

And, behold, there cometh a day when he kisseth her suddenly and without warning.

And another when he kisseth her again—easily.

And another when he kisseth her much and often. And another when he kisseth her more casually.

And another when he departeth early, and kisseth her but once—“Good night”.

And another when he faileth to call.

Then, peradventure, she writeth him a letter—which he putteth in his pocket and forgetteth to answer. She summoneth him over the telephone and he goeth into the booth wearily. She reproacheth and revileth him. He picketh a quarrel.

She sobbeth “All is over between us!” He answereth “Oh, very well! Even as thou sayest!”

And, in time, he meeteth another damsel and doeth it all over again. Yea, the selfsame programme he repeateth unto the letter; yet, he never tireth.

For lo! though a man hath eaten his fill at one meal, why shall he lack appetite for the next?

Then, I charge thee, my Daughter, when love beginneth, question not any man how it will end; for it is only in the beginning of things that a man is interested; even in the cream from off the jug, the bubble of the champagne, the meat on the peach, and—the first kiss of a woman.

Yet, what mattereth the end? Is not the end of the cream, skimmed milk; and the end of a cigar, a stub; and the end of a peach, a stone; and the end of champagne, dregs; and the end of love, a quarrel? And which of these would ye choose?

Verily, the flirtations of a man’s bachelor days are, in passing, as the courses of the love-feast; but a wife is the black coffee which settleth him.

CHAPTER TWO

Marvellous, oh, my Daughter, is the way of a man with women; for every man hath a method and each his favorite stunt. And the stunt that he hath found to work successfully with one damsel shall be practised upon each in turn, even unto the finest details thereof.

Behold, one man shall come unto thee saying:

“How foolish are the sentimentalists! But, as for me, my motives are altruistic and disinterested; and a woman’s friendship is what I most desire.” Yet, I charge thee, seek among his women “friends” and thou shalt not find an homely damsel in all their number.

For this is the platonic stunt.

Now, another shall try thee by a simpler method.

Lo, suddenly and without warning, he shall arise and catch thee in his arms. And when thou smitest him upon the cheek, he shall be overcome with humiliation, crying:

“I could not help it!” Yet be not persuaded, but put him down without mercy, lest peradventure, he kiss thee again.

For this is the impetuous stunt.

Yet observe how still another seeketh to be more subtile.

Mark how he sitteth afar off and talketh of love in the abstract; how he calleth three times a week, yet remaineth always impersonal; how he praiseth the shape of thine hand and admireth thy rings, yet toucheth not so much as the tips of thy fingers.

“Lo,” he thinketh in his heart, “I shall keep her guessing. Yea, I shall wrack her soul with thoughts of how I may be brought to subjection. And when she can no longer contain her curiosity, then will she seek to lure me, and I shall gather her in mine arms.”

And this is the elusive stunt.

But, I say unto thee, my Daughter, each of these is but as a chainstitch unto a rose pattern, beside him that playeth the frankly devoted. For all women are unto him as one woman—and that one putty.

Lo, the look of “adoration” in his eyes is like unto the curl in his hair, always there; and he weareth his “protecting manner” as naturally and as constantly as his linen collar.

He is so attentive and the thoughtful thing cometh unto him as second nature.

Yea, though there be twenty damsels in the room, yet shall each be made to think in her heart:

“Lo, I am it!”

Verily, verily, all the days of his life he shall be waited on and cooed over and coddled by women; and his way shall be as one continuous path of conquests and thornless roses.

For this is the Stunt of Stunts!

CHAPTER THREE

I charge thee, my Daughter, seek not to break a man’s heart; for it is like unto family pride, or a pin, which may be bent, but cannot be broken! Yea, it is as a ball of India rubber which reboundeth easily after the worst shocks.

Lo, the heart of a woman is full of soft spots in which every man she hath once loved occupieth a “cozy corner”. She lingereth tenderly over the grave of a dead love; but a man flingeth a spadeful of earth thereon and proceedeth to dig a new one. And his heart is as a great cemetery!

A woman keepeth a bundle of love-letters tied in faded ribbons; but a man cleaneth his pipe bowl cheerfully with the stem of the rose which the girl-before-the-last hath worn in her hair.

A woman remembereth the dress she hath worn and the song she hath sung for each particular man; but a man remembereth not the scent of violet sachet when the odor of heliotrope is in his nostrils.

And, after six months, when he cometh by chance upon an old glove or a lock of hair at the bottom of his trunk, he casteth it into the fire, muttering, “Now, who the devil put that thing there?”

A woman recollecteth each pet name by which she hath been called; she alloweth no two men to label her alike. But unto a man, every woman becometh in turn “Little Girl” or “Baby” or “Honey”.

Lo, he is as one that playeth with skulls and sporteth with the bones of his ancestors; for he holdeth nothing sacred.

He eraseth one face from the tablet of memory, and draweth another across it.

He changeth his object of thought as readily as he changeth his clothes and his political opinions.

For a woman’s love is a slow flame which smouldereth always, but a man’s love is like unto a skyrocket, which sputtereth out and cannot be rekindled.

Verily, his “past” is always quite past, and his dead loves are quite dead. And there is nothing which is more wearisome unto him than the memory of yesterday’s wine, or yesterday’s flirtation.

CHAPTER FOUR

My Daughter, there are many styles of kisses, and they come in endless patterns, even as Oriental rugs.

There is the kiss that sootheth and the kiss that thrilleth, the kiss that flattereth and the kiss that is a pastime. But the best of all kisses is the first kiss; for it is the most difficult.

Yet, in all the days of thy life, no two men shall kiss thee alike. For one man shall regard thy kisses as a boon, and another shall regard them as an amusement; but an husband shall consider them, as the shaving of his chin, a morning duty.

Hast thou scorned a man’s kisses?

Then will he exalt thee, saying “Lo! she is very proper.” For he can think of no other reason why thou shouldst not desire to kiss him.

Yet if thou hast consented to kiss only one man, he will say unto himself, “Verily, it is her habit. So doeth she with all mankind.” For every man judgeth thee by the way in which thou treatest him. If a man kisseth thy hand gracefully, beware of him; for this is the habit of an accomplished flirt, which hath been acquired by much practice.

But if he kisseth thee first upon the forehead, and then upon the eyelids, and then upon the lips, thou mayest choose thy wedding gown and decide upon thy bridesmaids.

Lo, kissing is a fine art, and there are many artists; and one shall take a kiss from thee as though he doeth thee a favor, and another shall take a kiss as though he had taken thy pocketbook.

Yet, no man shall ever understand why thou seemest pleased, or why thou waxest wroth, when he kisseth thee; for it is all in the way of his wooing.

Verily, verily, a man who kisseth a woman with his hat on shall be annihilated.

But he, that kisseth her as though he had never kissed before and never should kiss again, shall wear an halo in her sight. For he knoweth the Art of Arts.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lo, my Daughter, a man came unto me saying:

“Let me be thy slave. For, behold, I am all devotion. And it is my delight to serve a fair woman.”

And I looked at him and smiled sadly.

For I knew that he was invulnerable; and all my weapons were broken against me.

But another came unto me saying:

“Behold! I am a woman-hater. Not one of them do I trust. Nay, not one can deceive and allure me. For I have their numbers, all of them.”

And my heart was gladdened. For, by that sign, I knew that he was easy. And my way was clear before me.

Verily, verily, men are of three varieties: the kind that must be driven with whip and spur; the kind that must be coaxed with apples and sugar; and the kind that must be blindfolded and backed into the shafts of matrimony.

And the woman-hater is like unto the last. Therefore, I charge thee, when thou meetest one of these seek not to argue with him, neither to convince him; but agree with him sweetly, that all thy sex is weak and untrustworthy.

Discourse sorrowfully upon the pitfalls of flirtation, and the hollowness of love, and the horrors of matrimony.

Declare boldly thy scorn for the New Woman, and for the Old Woman, and for the Frivolous Woman, and for the Highbrow, and for the Lowbrow, and all the women that are on the earth and in the heavens above the earth.

And when thou hast disarmed him, taking all his arguments from out his mouth, speak sweetly concerning the beauties of platonic friendship and wax rapturous in its praises.

Bring the cushion for his head, and the footstool for his feet, and feed him from the chafing dish with the fruits of thine own cooking, saying:

“I prithee, do smoke, for it is so chummy! Yea, I beg of thee, treat me as thou wouldst a man friend.”

Let him hold thy hand. And he shall say in his heart:

“Would to heaven I were not a Woman Hater, and that all women were like unto her; for she is sensible and sincere—and a bachelor flat was never like this!”

And upon the seventh evening he shall fall down before thee and retract all his words, eating them one by one.

And when thou remindest him of thy warnings and of thy fear of marriage, he will seek to persuade thee and will comfort thee with kisses and a solitaire.

Then shalt thou slip the bridle over his head and the reins shall be in thine hands. And there shall be one less Woman Hater in the world.

For a Woman Hater, my Beloved, is like unto the simple ostrich, which hideth its head in the sand and thinketh itself safe.

But he that professeth open adoration is like unto the park squirrel, which will eat out of thine hand but can never be caught!

CHAPTER SIX

My Daughter, a woman is a study in moods and tenses, but man is a simple proposition which worketh according to a “system”.

Behold, how the two regard a letter. For when a woman writeth she spelleth her soul out on paper; but a man putteth all his tender meanings between the lines. Yea, a woman’s letter is a confession, but a man’s letter is a veiled allusion which concealeth his thoughts. Verily, it is a work of art.

Yet, when a woman receiveth it, she readeth it over many times, and placeth it within her shirtwaist by day, and under her pillow by night. For she knoweth that, with temptations like unto telephones and post-cards within reach, a hand-written letter is a sign of devotion.

But, when a man receiveth a woman’s letter, he droppeth it in his pocket. Nay, not in the pocket above his heart, but in that pocket which containeth the fewest bills and receipts and lead pencils and other valuable things. He carryeth it there faithfully—until he changeth his coat.

He layeth it away in an unused drawer amongst other trash.

He forgetteth it.

And, when years shall have passed, he findeth it and taketh it out curiously.

He regardeth it with astonishment.

He wrinkleth his brows with his great effort at recollection, saying: “Now who the dickens wrote this thing? Yea, who is ‘Mabel’?”

He giveth it up.

And lo! he proceedeth to make pipe-lighters of thine heart-to-heart effusion.

Behold thy letter, like unto his love, goeth up in smoke!

SELAH!