CHAPTER SIX
My Daughter, a woman is a study in moods and tenses, but man is a simple proposition which worketh according to a “system”.
Behold, how the two regard a letter. For when a woman writeth she spelleth her soul out on paper; but a man putteth all his tender meanings between the lines. Yea, a woman’s letter is a confession, but a man’s letter is a veiled allusion which concealeth his thoughts. Verily, it is a work of art.
Yet, when a woman receiveth it, she readeth it over many times, and placeth it within her shirtwaist by day, and under her pillow by night. For she knoweth that, with temptations like unto telephones and post-cards within reach, a hand-written letter is a sign of devotion.
But, when a man receiveth a woman’s letter, he droppeth it in his pocket. Nay, not in the pocket above his heart, but in that pocket which containeth the fewest bills and receipts and lead pencils and other valuable things.
He carryeth it there faithfully—until he changeth his coat.
He layeth it away in an unused drawer amongst other trash.
He forgetteth it.
And, when years shall have passed, he findeth it and taketh it out curiously.
He regardeth it with astonishment.
He wrinkleth his brows with his great effort at recollection, saying: “Now who the dickens wrote this thing? Yea, who is ‘Mabel’?”
He giveth it up.
And lo! he proceedeth to make pipe-lighters of thine heart-to-heart effusion.
Behold thy letter, like unto his love, goeth up in smoke!
SELAH!