I charge thee, my Daughter, seek not to break a man’s heart; for it is
like unto family pride, or a pin, which may be _bent_, but _cannot_ be
broken! Yea, it is as a ball of India rubber which reboundeth easily
after the worst shocks.
Lo, the heart of a woman is full of soft spots in which every man she
hath _once_ loved occupieth a “cozy corner”. She lingereth tenderly
over the grave of a dead love; but a man flingeth a spadeful of earth
thereon and proceedeth to dig a _new_ one. And his heart is as a great
cemetery!
A woman keepeth a bundle of love-letters tied in faded ribbons; but a
man cleaneth his pipe bowl cheerfully with the stem of the rose which
the _girl-before-the-last_ hath worn in her hair.
A woman remembereth the dress she hath worn and the song she hath sung
for each particular man; but a man remembereth not the scent of violet
sachet when the odor of heliotrope is in his nostrils.
And, after _six_ months, when he cometh by chance upon an old glove
or a lock of hair at the bottom of his trunk, he casteth it into the
fire, muttering, “Now, who the devil put _that_ thing there?”
A woman recollecteth each pet name by which she hath been called; she
alloweth no _two_ men to label her alike. But unto a man, _every_ woman
becometh in turn “Little Girl” or “Baby” or “Honey”.
Lo, he is as one that playeth with skulls and sporteth with the bones
of his ancestors; for he holdeth nothing sacred.
He eraseth one face from the tablet of memory, and draweth another
across it.
He changeth his object of thought as readily as he changeth his clothes
and his political opinions.
For a woman’s love is a slow flame which smouldereth always, but a
man’s love is like unto a skyrocket, which sputtereth out and cannot be
rekindled.
Verily, his “past” is always _quite_ past, and his dead loves are quite
dead. And there is _nothing_ which is more wearisome unto him than the
memory of yesterday’s wine, or yesterday’s flirtation.