profitable in the household, she does not
order it now. Meekly you protest, and
say that you do like it in moderation; perhaps,
having forgotten all about the surfeit
and the remonstrance, you omit the
moderation and say shortly you do like it. On
which she either sheds tears and asks
plaintively, "What can I do to please you?"
or she fires out into the anger that has
smouldered for a year, and says, wrathfully,
"How is it possible to satisfy a man
so unjust, so fond of finding fault, whatever
is done for him, as you are!"

Some people heap coals of fire on your
head by the meekness of their demeanour
when you have been unnecessarily harsh
to them, and the zeal with which they
show you they are not offended and bear
no malice, when, to have been angry and
turned round against you, to have asserted
their own self-respect and right to
consideration, would have been a better thing
than to have crawled, and cringed, and
kissed your chastising hand. You would
have respected the man to whom you had
shown your dislike more frankly than
politely, if he had stood up and made you
understand that he was not to be insulted
with impunity; and that he was not a mere
jelly-fish you might kick about at your own
will, and no harm done to any one. But
your heaper-up of the burning coals of
meekness and long suffering is so very humble;
so lavish of that cringing kind of patience
which almost offers itself to be kicked, and
which certainly does not resent being
kicked; so forward in showing that ignoble
indifference to insults which is incompatible
with self-respect; so bent on repaying your
harshness with some small act of
generosity or sentimental attention, that you
despise him ten times more because of his
unmanly meekness, and are tempted to
show him ten times more disrespect. But
what can you say to him? You cannot tell
him that he ought to give back blow for
blow, nor that you would like him better if
you saw that your insults had struck. If
only he would drop your acquaintance! But
he will not. These spaniels of the human
race are not to be beaten off; whatever you
may be to them they are always the same
to you, and come back to your heel, fawning
and caressing, as if you were nought
but sweet and tender friends together.

Sometimes, but not often, this heaping
up of the coals of patience on the head of
the disdainful makes way after a time in
love affairs. But, as was said before, not
often. Men who make love servilely,
cringingly, who let themselves be snubbed in
public, thrown over on any pretext, and
led the life of the metaphorical dog generally,
yet who are always ready to go back
to their chains if their imperious mistress
but condescends to beckon, may, after a long
and toilsome time of servitude, obtain the
Rachel of their desires; but the chance of
losing her altogether, through disgust at
their excessive patience, is about equal to
that of gaining her through compassion.
Their humility, abject as it is, sickens rather
than softens; and their unwearied forbearance
under all the slights and impertinencies
that have been showered on them,
gives the girl a sentiment of superiority by
no means favourable to their suit. For
though women like to have power over men,
as is but natural, they do not like to feel
morally superior to them; unless, indeed,
they are of that exaggerated type of pseudo-
masculinity which disdains the instinctive
submissiveness of sex, and aspires to a
universal supremacy where men are to be
second-rate all through. But, save these
exceptions, women like to feel just that
amount of inferiority which forces them to
respect, and perhaps be a trifle in awe of,
the man they love; at all events, so far in
awe of him that they must respect him if they
would keep his love. When once folks can
bully and not lose ground, they have very
little mercy and put but small restraint on
themselves. And women are not superior
in this to the average human being.
Indeed, gifted by nature with an admirable
obtuseness where the question is the ill-
treatment of a much enduring lover, they
suffer no smart of conscience when the
burning coals of patience are heaped by
cart-loads on their heads; and if they can
torment without the fear of losing the coal
heaper—well! they do torment him, that
is all!

The same is true of the women who
worship at the feet of the men who no
longer love them, who have perhaps never
loved them truly, never cared for them
with more than a mere fleeting admiration.
Their patience under injury, their
forgiveness of insult, fatigue still more the
love that, may be, an honest outburst of
pride and of self-respect would have
revived; for heaping coals of fire for love's
sake is all very well in theory, but in practice
it leads to disgust for the heaper, unless
it turns to repentance of the wrong.
One of the most remarkable novels of
the best psychological analyst the French
possess, is founded on this indestructible