Man's emotion is far stronger than woman's. His feeling, when it is
deep, is a force which a woman may but dimly understand. The strongest
passion of a man's life is his love for his sweetheart; woman's greatest
love is lavished upon her child.

"One is the lover and one is the loved." Sometimes the positions are
reversed, to 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 matinée 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]