She looked at me cuttingly and then burst into a laugh. "Jack, what shall I do with you? You are so in love with Eloise that it’s positively painful. You must overcome it before you marry her; it’s not good policy, not manly nor becoming. The greatest race of men was in the days when a man took his wife by force, conquered her and beat her into submission. He couldn’t own her until he proved he was a better man than she. Now, the woman rules in everything. Take your silly weddings; they’re a glorification of the bride. To see them one would think the poor devil of a groom was a kind of matrimonial valet, a second fiddler, used chiefly to make a background for the bride to show off on—he is not marrying—oh, no, it is the woman—and it’s the same everywhere. The women are writing our novels, our magazines, our poetry, running our conventions, starring in our theatres and churches, and doing everything else worth while except making the money. The men have become unconsciously so enslaved that the few of them who do write novels or poetry write effeminate things because the age is under the influence of woman. There is no man-poetry any longer, that’s why I never read it. If we don’t get a man-age into the world again," she added vehemently, "we are all going to the devil, going to be wiped out by some heathen man-race of the Nibelungen woods, not yet born!" I smiled guiltily, for I saw Eloise coming out of the house and my heart fluttered queerly at sight of her. She came forward and I saw Goff’s roses pinned on her breast. "This is like old times, Jack," she said laughing, "but where is my horse?" She looked around, glancing at the little pony-mare we had saddled for her. "I thought you’d like to ride the pony-mare again," said Jim, who stood holding the reins, "like you useter ride with Mr. Jack," he added. Eloise tossed her head. "No, no; now, Jim, you may saddle Satan for me. Why, I’ve been dreaming of this for months, a chance to show the splendid fellow and his paces to Jack. I wouldn’t miss it for anything." Jim stood scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Dat devil horse, he ain’t a good horse, this mohnin’, ma’am, ’specially for ladies." "Jim," she said sternly, "look me in the eye! What have you been doing to Satan?" Jim grinned apologetically. "I had to ride him las’ night for some med’cine for my sick chile." "And I told you never to ride him, that he hated the very smell of a negro." Jim still grinned. "But you tried him?" she went on. "Yes’um, and he flung me!" Eloise laughed. "Served you right. You know that horse doesn’t like you." "An’ when I went into the stall to saddle him, he remembered it." "Of course he did. I told him never to let you or anyone else ride him—no one but me."