night as if he thought you were pretty, when he did not say so. It is
hard to receive a telegram, when you are looking for a letter, saying,
"Have not had time to write. Shall be home Sunday. Will bring you
something nice." It is harder still to get a letter telling about the
weather 'and how busy he is, when the same amount of space, saying
that he got to thinking about you yesterday when he saw a girl on the
street who looked like you, only she didn't carry herself so well as
you do, and that he was a lucky man to have got you when so many other
men wanted you, and he loved you, good-bye--would have fairly made
your heart turn over with joy and made you kiss the hurried lines and
thrust the letter in your belt, where you could crackle it now and
then just to make sure it was there.

Nearly all nice men make good lovers in deeds. Many fail in the
handling of words. Few, indeed, combine the two and make perfect
lovers.

But the last test of all, and, to my mind, the greatest, is in the use
of words as a balm. Few people, be they men or women, be they lovers,
married, or only friends, can help occasionally hurting each other's
feelings. Accidents are continually happening even when people are
good-tempered. And for quick or evil-tempered ones there is but one
remedy--the handsome, honest apology. The most perfect lover is the
one who best understands how and when to apologize.

I have heard men say, to prove their independence, their proud spirit,
their unbending self-respect, "I never apologize." They say it in such
conscious pride, and so honestly expect me to admire them, and I am so
amiable, that I never dare remonstrate. I simply keep out of their
way. But I feel like saying: "Poor, pitiful soul! Poor, meagre nature!