Go to, my Daughter. Knowest thou a man who hath lived long in a
bachelor flat? Then beware of him! For his ways are full of guile and
he hath not a thrill left.
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_.