Alas, the bachelor flat is a curse sent upon Woman. For, lo, though a man hath dwelt in the back hall-room of a boarding-house for many years and hath suffered all its untold horrors, the moment he taketh a flat the sweet feminine thing seeketh him out and yearneth to make him “comfortable”.
And his days are made sad with sofa pillows and towel racks, and picture frames, and shaving-pads, and foot-stools, until his house resembleth a bargain counter, or the spoils from the harem of a sacked city.
He groaneth when he seeketh in corners for a spot wherein to place his forty-seventh cushion; he curseth when he returneth after dark and falleth over tabourets and other evidences of the pursuit of man; he laugheth as he borroweth old socks from his men friends that he may supply all of those who desire to do his mending. And to him, in matters of love, there is nothing new under the sun.
For the man that weddeth a widow is number two, but the woman that weddeth a bachelor-flatee is number forty-two.
And when she mendeth his coat and patteth his pillow; when she kisseth him in the cleft within his chin and runneth her fingers through his hair, he feeleth no thrill. For these are unto him but as a tale that hath been many times told.
Verily, his sentiments are frayed at the edges and his emotions worn thin with usage. His heart is patched in many places and his illusions are as last year’s roses—withered.
Yea, his love is but as warmed-over pudding or cold veal served upon the second day; even as second-hand furniture, whereof the interior is motheaten.
But he is better than nothing.