We are scarcely apt to berate the source of enjoyment.

Love is not only a feeling, it is also an art. A simple word, a sensitive precaution, a mere nothing reveal to a woman the sublime artist who can touch her heart without withering it.

There are no little events with the heart. It magnifies everything; it places in the same scales the fall of an empire of fourteen years and the dropping of a woman's glove, and almost always the glove weighs more than the empire.

Kindness is not without its rocks ahead. People are apt to put it down to an easy temper and seldom recognize it as the secret striving of a generous nature; whilst, on the other hand, the ill-natured get credit for all the evil they refrain from.

Among fifty percent of your married couples, the husband worries very little about what his wife is doing, provided she is doing all he wishes.

If the human heart sometimes finds moments of pause as it ascends the slopes of affection, it rarely halts on the way down.

A lover always thinks of his mistress first and himself second; with a husband it runs the other way.