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.