He had himself known men,
confirmed bachelors like himself, who had got married and regretted it
ever since. Their lives had become a burden to them. They were
outrageously henpecked, made to dance attendance until all hours of
the morning upon silly, bridge-loving wives. True, but they were poor,
weak-minded simpletons, just the kind of men to be dominated, bullied
by a woman. He would like to see the girl who could coerce him into
doing anything he did not wish to do. If he ever married, he would
rule his own household; no woman would venture to dictate to him. He
would insist on his absolute independence, do as he chose, go where he
liked. He would be the master. If the husband had not the right to
command, who had? When a pair of horses was sold, did they not belong
to the purchaser? A wife was, in a sense, a purchase. The average
society girl who gets married nowadays practically sells herself. She
wants a man with money--a man who will give her jewels and clothes and
an establishment that will make every other girl of her acquaintance
green with envy. She gets him--for a consideration. That, no doubt,
was the kind of girl he would one day get. She would offer herself,
and if he liked the look of her he would buy her, and, having bought
her, she would learn soon enough that there was only one master in the
Stafford household. It was not necessary that they love each other.
They would be good friends, chums, and all that, but he would never
let go of the check-rein.
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