A man never seems to be able to understand that, in order to obtain the supremest pleasure from an act of thoughtfulness to his wife, he must be wholly unselfish and give it to her, in her line, and the way she wants it—­and the way he knows she wants it, if he would only stop to think.  I know a man who hates to go out in the evening, but who occasionally, in order to do something particularly sweet and unselfish to please his wife, takes her to the theatre.  She loves fine plays, tragedy, high-grade comedy.  But he takes her to the minstrels, because that is the only thing he can stand, and for two weeks afterwards he keeps saying to her, “Didn’t I take you to the theatre the other night, honey?  Don’t I sometimes sacrifice myself for your pleasure?” And she goes and kisses him and says yes, and tries not to think that his selfishness more than outweighs his unselfishness.  Women have more conscience about deceiving themselves into staying in love than men have.

But even yet, suppose you are not that kind of a man, we have not got to the point of the subject yet.  Our way lies through the head to the heart.  And the man who is scrupulously careful about acts has yet to. watch at once the greatest joy, the greatest grief, the supremest healing of even deliberate wounds—­words.  It is a question with me whether a woman ever knows all the joys of love-making who has one of those dumb, silent husbands, who doubtless adores her, but is unable to express it only in deeds.  It requires an act of the will to remember that his getting down-town at seven o’clock every morning is all done for you, when he has not been able to tell you in words that he loves you.  It is hard to keep thinking that he looked at you last 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.