I remember a case in point. A young girl,
whom I knew intimately, married a man who was, as a husband, perfect.
They lived happily enough for three or four years; she had a couple
of children, a beautiful house, everything that could be desired. And
then the trouble came. She had been reading trashy novels, I suppose;
at any rate, she fell in love with her own husband. She went in daily
dread that he would find it out. I argued with her, reasoned with her,
entreated her to give up such ruinous folly. It was of no use. She
wrote him letters--three sheets, crossed and underlined. I warned her
that sooner or later he would read one of them. He did; and he never
forgave her. That happy home is all broken up now--simply because that
woman could not remember that there is a time for sentiment and a
time for propriety, and that marriage is the time for propriety. The
passions are all very well until you are married; but the fashions
will last you all your life.
I have no more to say on the choice of a husband. It is quite the
simplest thing that a young girl has to learn,--you must find a quite
colourless person, and flatter him a little; his vanity will do the
rest.
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