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.
CHAPTER FOUR
My Daughter, there are many styles of kisses, and they come in endless patterns, even as Oriental rugs.
There is the kiss that sootheth and the kiss that thrilleth, the kiss that flattereth and the kiss that is a pastime. But the best of all kisses is the first kiss; for it is the most difficult.