Pretty lady crying tears into a pillow. Pretty lady growing ugly,
spite and anger spoiling pretty features. Dark young man no longer
loving. Dark young man hurling bitter words at pretty lady--hurling,
maybe, things more heavy. Dark young man and pretty lady listening
approvingly to comic singer, having both discovered: "That's what
it's like when you're married."

My friend H. G. Wells wrote a book, "The Island of Dr. Moreau." I
read it in MS. one winter evening in a lonely country house upon the
hills, wind screaming to wind in the dark without. The story has
haunted me ever since. I hear the wind's shrill laughter. The
doctor had taken the beasts of the forest, apes, tigers, strange
creatures from the deep, had fashioned them with hideous cruelty into
the shapes of men, had given them souls, had taught to them the law.
In all things else were they human, but their original instincts
their creator's skill had failed to eliminate. All their lives were
one long torture. The Law said, "We are men and women; this we shall
do, this we shall not do." But the ape and tiger still cried aloud
within them.

Civilization lays her laws upon us; they are the laws of gods--of the
men that one day, perhaps, shall come. But the primeval creature of
the cave still cries within us.

[A few rules for Married Happiness.]

The wonder is that not being gods--being mere men and women--marriage
works out as well as it does. We take two creatures with the
instincts of the ape still stirring within them; two creatures
fashioned on the law of selfishness; two self-centred creatures of