When Smith tells me that his automobile cost him
three times as much as I know he has paid for it, I record my
impressions by telling Jones as soon as I meet him that the man Smith is
an incorrigible liar. But when Mrs. Smith tells me that her family is
one of the oldest in Massachusetts, which I have every reason to believe
is not so, I invariably say to myself or to some one else, "A woman's
appreciation of the truth is like her appreciation of music; she likes
it best when she closes her eyes to it."
Or Smith may be a very straightforward man, given to plain-speaking, and
when you ask him how he liked your last dinner he may say that in his
opinion the wine was better than the conversation. In that case you will
probably tell your wife that Smith has shown himself to be an
insufferable ass, and that you have decided to cut his acquaintance. But
when Mrs. Smith tells you that your expensive dinners are rather beyond
what a man of your modest income should go in for, you merely writhe and
smile; only on the train the next day you will say to Harrington, "Has
it ever occurred to you that a woman loves the truth, not because it is
the truth, but because it hurts? Take a cigarette.
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