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"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord

Henry. "You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is

because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again,

it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men

risk theirs."

"Narborough wasn't perfect," cried the old lady.

"If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was

the rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough

of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects.

You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am

afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true."

"Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you

for your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would

ever be married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors.

Not, however, that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the

married men live like bachelors, and all the bachelors like

married men."

"Fin de siecle," murmured Lord Henry.