As for love, flattery is its very life-blood. Fill a person with love
for themselves, and what runs over will be your share, says a certain
witty and truthful Frenchman whose name I can't for the life of me
remember. (Confound it! I never can remember names when I want to.)
Tell a girl she is an angel, only more angelic than an angel; that she
is a goddess, only more graceful, queenly, and heavenly than the
average goddess; that she is more fairy-like than Titania, more
beautiful than Venus, more enchanting than Parthenope; more adorable,
lovely, and radiant, in short, than any other woman that ever did
live, does live, or could live, and you will make a very favorable
impression upon her trusting little heart. Sweet innocent! she will
believe every word you say. It is so easy to deceive a woman--in this
way.

Dear little souls, they hate flattery, so they tell you; and when you
say, "Ah, darling, it isn't flattery in your case, it's plain, sober
truth; you really are, without exaggeration, the most beautiful, the
most good, the most charming, the most divine, the most perfect human
creature that ever trod this earth," they will smile a quiet,
approving smile, and, leaning against your manly shoulder, murmur that
you are a dear good fellow after all.

By Jove! fancy a man trying to make love on strictly truthful
principles, determining never to utter a word of mere compliment or
hyperbole, but to scrupulously confine himself to exact fact! Fancy
his gazing rapturously into his mistress' eyes and whispering softly
to her that she wasn't, on the whole, bad-looking, as girls went!
Fancy his holding up her little hand and assuring her that it was of a
light drab color shot with red; and telling her as he pressed her to