A WORD TO THE READER
Remembering the very excellent advice of my friend the Tinker as
to the writing of a good "nov-el," I am perturbed, and not a
little discouraged, upon looking over these pages, to find that I
have, as yet, described no desperate hand-to-hand encounters, no
hairbreadth escapes (unless a bullet through one's hat may be
justly so regarded), and, above all--not one word of LOVE!
You, sir, who have expectantly borne with me thus far, may be
tempted to close the book in a huff, and, hurling it from you,
with a deep-voiced anathema, clap on your hat, and sally forth
into the sunshine.
Or you, madam, breathing a sigh o'er hopes deferred, may take up
needle, and silk, and turn you, once again, to that embroidery
which has engaged your dainty fingers this twelvemonth and more,
yet which, like Penelope's web, would seem no nearer completion.
Ah well, sir! exercise, especially walking, is highly beneficial
to the liver, they tell me--and nothing, madam, believe me
(unless it be playing the harp), can show off a pretty hand, or
the delicate curves of a shapely wrist and arm to such advantage
as that selfsame embroidery. But since needlework (like books
and all sublunary things) is apt to grow monotonous, you may,
perchance, for lack of better occupation, be driven to address
yourself, once more, to this, my Narrative.
And since you, sir, no matter how far you walk, must, of
necessity, return to your chair and chimney-corner, it is
possible that, having dined adequately, and lighted your pipe
(and being therefore in a more charitable and temperate frame of
mind), you may lift my volume from the dusty corner where it has
lain all this while, and (though probably with sundry grunts and
snorts, indicative that the thing is done under protest, as it
were) reopen these pages.
In the which hope, dear madam, and you, noble sir, I here
commence this, my Second Book--which, as you see, is headed thus: THE WOMAN