The word got around town before she even finished putting the stickers on the books and the place filled up with women. This did not go unnoticed out at the Mule Barn truck stop, where loyal members of the world dilemma think tank subjected the phenomenon to at least three consecutive cups of coffee.

“The way I see it,” said Steve, the cowboy of the group, “is that spending money on books about love is how these ladies are attacking our manhood and casting aspersions on our romantic abilities.”

“Aspersions?” said Dud, looking at Steve. “I can cast flies or spinners or bait, but aspersions is a new one.”

Steve grinned. “I looked that one up. Thought you might add it to your vocabulary.”

“Now Steve,” said Doc, the senior member of the firm at the philosophy counter and the one with the most initials behind his name, “I think that's an interesting observation coming from a confirmed bachelor. The rest of us have ladies at home …”

“Ladies at home who are desperately devoted to us…” added Dud.

“Amen to that,” said Herb.

“… but you think because the women of this town choose to indulge in some harmless literary frippery…”

Steve's jaw dropped. So did the jaws of Herb and Dud.

“ … this means they aren't happy at home?”

“Well, Doc, if they're just going to sit there and fripper, I guess there's no harm in it, and it doesn't mean you boys don't bring home enough flowers or anything.”

“Frippery,” said Herb, over and over softly to himself.

“What do you think, Dud?” asked Doc.

“As I see it,” he said, “to frip or not to frip. That is the question.”

“At this point,” said Steve, “I don't give a frip.”

The moaning continued through the next two refills.

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