“Well, now,” continued Potts gravely, “a woman who should fall in love with one of us fellows and deem him a hero would be substantially in Titania's plight when she adored Bottom, and about as much an object of pity when her hero disclosed an asininity which would be at least as near to being his real character as the heroism she ascribed to him.” “That 's all very well,” said Merril dryly, “but it strikes me that it's middling cheeky for you fellows to be discussing how you 'll jilt your sweethearts with least expense to their feelings, when the chances are that if you should ever get one, you 'll need all your wits to keep her from jilting you.” “You are, as usual, trivial and inconsequential this evening, Merril,” replied Potts, when the laughter had subsided. “Supposing, as you suggest, that we shall be the jilted and not the jilters, it will be certainly for our interest that the ladies should spare our feelings by disenchanting us,--saying, as it were, the charm backward that first charmed us. He who would teach the ladies the method and enlist their tender hearts in its behalf would be, perhaps, the greatest benefactor his much-jilted and heart-sore sex ever had. Then, indeed, with the heart-breakers of both sexes pledged to so humane a practice, there would be no more any such thing as sorrow over unrequited affections, and the poets and novelists would beg their bread.” “That is a millennial dream, Potts,” responded Merril. “You may possibly persuade the men to make themselves disagreeable for pity's sake, but it is quite too much to expect that a woman would deliberately put herself in an unbecoming light, if it were to save a world from its sins.” “Perhaps it is,” said Potts pensively; “but considering what perfectly inexhaustible resources of disagreeableness there are in the best of us and the fairest of women, it seems a most gratuitous cruelty that any heart should suffer when a very slight revelation would heal its hurt. We can't help people suffering because we are so faulty and imperfect, but we might at least see that nobody ever had a pang from thinking us better than we are.” “Look at Hunt!” said Sturgis. “He does n't open his mouth, but drinks in Potts's wisdom as eagerly as if he did n't know it was a pump that never stops.” There was a general laugh among those who glanced up in time to catch the expression of close attention on Hunt's face. “Probably he 's deliberating on the application of the Potts patent painless cure to some recent victim of that yellow mustache and goatee,” suggested Merril, with the envy of a smooth-faced youth for one more favored. Hunt, whose face had sprung back like a steel-trap to its usual indifferent expression, smiled nonchalantly at Merril's remark. One whose reticent habit makes his secrets so absolutely secure as Hunt's private affairs always were is stirred to amusement rather than trepidation by random guesses which come near the truth.