the misery of all concerned, but normally, man is the
lover. He wins love by pleading for it, and there is no way by which a
woman may more surely lose it, for while woman's pity is closely akin to
Love, man's pity is a poor relation who wears Love's cast-off clothes.

There are two other ways in which a woman loses her lover. One is by
marrying him and the other by retaining him as her friend. If she can
keep him as her friend, she never believes in his love, and husbands and
lovers are often two very different possessions.

A man's heart is an office desk, wherein tender episodes are
pigeon-holed for future reference. If he is too busy to look them over,
they are carried off later in Father Time's junk-wagon, like other and
more profane history.

All the isolated loves of a woman's life are woven into a single
continuous fabric. Love itself is the thing she needs and the man who
offers it seldom matters much. Man loves and worships woman, but woman
loves love. Were it not so, there would be no actor's photograph upon
the matinee girl's dressing-table, and no bit of tender verse would be
fastened to her cushion with a hat pin, while she herself was fancy
free.

[Sidenote: Gift and Giver]

All her life long she confuses the gift with the giver, and loving with
the pride of being loved, because her love is responsive rather than
original.

[Sidenote: The Forgotten Harp]

She demands that the lover's devotion shall continue after marriage;
that every look shall be tender and every word adoring. Failing this,
she knows that love is dead. She is inevitably disappointed in marriage,
because she is no longer his fear, intoxication, and pain, but rather
his comrade and friend. The vibrant strings, struck from silence and
dreams to a sounding chord, are trembling still--whispering lingering
music to him who has forgotten the harp.

When a woman once tells a man she loves him, he regards it as some
chemical process which has taken place in her heart and he never
considers the possibility of change. He is little concerned as to its
expression, for he knows it is there. On the contrary, it is only by
expression that a woman ever feels certain of a man's love.

Doubt is the essential and constant quality of her nature, when once she
loves. She continually demands new proof and new devotion, consoling
herself sometimes with the thought that three days ago he said he loved
her and there has been no discord since.

As for