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.