And with old Barry I have my surety of a bite to eat and a place
by the fire. And why? Because I know men, and shall never lose my
cunning to hold them. 'Tis bitter sweet, the knowledge of them,
more sweet than bitter--men and men and men! Not stupid dolts,
nor fat bourgeois swine of business men, but men of temperament,
of flame and fire; madmen, maybe, but a lawless, royal race of
madmen.

"Little wife-woman, you must learn. Variety! There lies the
magic. 'Tis the golden key. 'Tis the toy that amuses. Without it
in the wife, the man is a Turk; with it, he is her slave, and
faithful. A wife must be many wives. If you would have your
husband's love you must be all women to him. You must be ever
new, with the dew of newness ever sparkling, a flower that never
blooms to the fulness that fades. You must be a garden of
flowers, ever new, ever fresh, ever different. And in your garden
the man must never pluck the last of your posies.

"Listen, little wife-woman. In the garden of love is a snake. It
is the commonplace. Stamp on its head, or it will destroy the
garden. Remember the name. Commonplace. Never be too intimate.
Men only seem gross. Women are more gross than men.--No, do not
argue, little new-wife. You are an infant woman. Women are less
delicate than men. Do I not know? Of their own husbands they will
relate the most intimate love-secrets to other women. Men never
do this of their wives. Explain it. There is only one way. In all
things of love women are less delicate. It is their mistake. It
is the father and the mother of the commonplace, and it is the
commonplace, like a loathsome slug, that beslimes and destroys
love.