Now tennis is a sport that has come up since Sylvia and I were children together, but I recalled, with a guilty blush, the time when she and I won the village championship in doubles in an all day siege of croquet, so what could I say in my own defence? Therefore I went with Phyllis to the tennis-court and sat for two long and inexpressibly dreary hours watching the senseless and stupid proceedings. It was pleasant to reflect that I was with Sylvia's daughter, and I tried to imagine that the keen interest of youth still remained, but I was sadly out of place. I am satisfied that this game of tennis has nothing of the fascinating quality of croquet. On our arrival home Phyllis kissed me, and thanked me for what she called my "self-denial," but after that one experience Frederick represented me at the tennis-court, as, indeed, the good-natured boy consented to do at many similar festivities. And so the summer wore gradually away, one day's enjoyment lazily following another's, with nothing to disturb the serenity of my life, or to interfere with the calm content into which I had settled. Phyllis was everything that a moderate and reasonable lover could wish--kind, gentle, affectionate within the bounds of maidenly discretion, attentive to my wishes, and considerate of my caprices. The more I saw of her the more I was persuaded that I had chosen wisely and well. One afternoon--Frederick, at my suggestion, had gallantly given up his work in the office and taken Phyllis down the river. I sat with Bunsey in the library, and took occasion to expound to him the philosophy of perfect love. "The trouble is," I said, "that people rush blindly into matrimony. They think they are in love, work themselves up to the proper pitch of madness, propose and marry while they are in delirium. Hence, so much of the wretchedness and misery that we see in the homes of our friends. For my part I am committed to the doctrine of affinities. It is true that I, like many others, was guilty of the usual folly in my youth, and perhaps that gave me the wisdom to wait for my second venture until precisely the fight party came along. Matrimony, Bunsey, is an exact science. If we regulate our passion, control all silly emotion, study feminine nature as critically and methodically as we investigate a mathematical problem, and commit ourselves only when the affinity presents herself, we shall make no mistakes. For, after all, what is an affinity? Nothing more than a human being sent by Providence as perfectly adapted to the wheels and curves of your nature." "A very pretty theory," retorted Bunsey, grimly; "and, by the way, when do you think of rushing into matrimony?" "Really," I said, somewhat confused, "to be entirely honest with you, I have not settled on any particular day. You see Phyllis should have her fling. She is very young." "True, but you are not."