"After a fellow's ideal, explodes he generally idles away his time pitying himself and saying sarcastic things about the entire human race, until he achieves a local reputation as a cynic. When in this state of mind there is no use in telling him that he is not the only original possessor of a bona fide broken ideal. He'll show you a little superficial scratch and say in husky tones, 'see this great wound it has made in my constitution, it will never heal. Happiness is an iridescent dream. Go and leave me to my fate! 'Then he'll heave a sigh which he thinks comes from a broken heart, but which really emanates from a dyspeptic condition, caused by lack of exercise. After a while he finds that this brand of romance is an overcrowded field and that he doesn't get sufficient sympathy to make it pay. When he realizes that he is up against the competitive system good and hard, he bids a fond farewell to sentiment and goes to work.
"It is interesting to watch young women, just after they lose an ideal. They generally have more time to indulge the 'broken heart' idea and do it so much more scientifically than men. It is very effective to lounge about in a darkened room, wearing a pale, hopeless expression and picturesque négligée. They usually read Faust and Dante's Inferno and think how sweet it is to suffer.
"When friends come to cheer them up they sigh softly and say, 'Ah, no; it is too late. Once I had aims and aspirations, but Fate has swept them all away. I shall only drift and drift now, until it is all over.'
"Then, the comforters go away with tears in their eyes and send her flowers.
"'How the poor child has suffered,' they say. But Providence only has a quiet laugh up her sleeve and says, as she winks the other eye,
"'What fools these mortals be!'"
"What's the matter with that man?" said the Observer, repeating his friend's interrogation, as they passed a pedestrian wearing a most prodigious frown. "Don't you know what's the matter with him? He's got the telephone face.