IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN “No,” said my companion, as the train dashed on, “it is not true that men love but once. I believe that a man loves more sensibly and truly after he has had two or three infatuations and suffered as many disappointments. I believe, too, it is the same with the sensible woman, only she sometimes does not have the opportunity to love so often as a man. “The other day I met an old sweetheart on the train in company with her mother. Once I would have married the woman, for I thought she was the only one in the world, but her mother objected to the match. My blood wasn’t blue enough. She was a good, warm-hearted girl, but she lacked courage. Had she been a girl of spirit, she would have married me in spite of all opposition. But she gave me up and broke her own heart over the affair. “I’ll admit that I was pretty well broken up at first, but my pride came to my rescue. I made up my mind that I needed a wife of more individuality and character, and I soon found her. In a little while I was deeper in love than ever before. She was brighter, deeper and more resolute. Her parents objected at first to her choice, but she told them it was not they who were making the match. She said if a girl had no choice in selecting a husband, the natural selection of sex was ignored, and love was seen only from a financial view. “Honest and true, I believe now it would have been very unfortunate had the first sweetheart married me, though I believe I could have loved her always, had her mother not broken up the match. Truly, I believe her life has been blighted by that disappointment. She never married. Perhaps she never had another chance. I do not know. They are poor now, and her mother has lost much of her pride. She has confessed lately that she made a mistake when she broke up Mary’s love affair. “The day I met them on the train they were going to ignore my presence, but I would not have it that way. I respect them too much to drop absolutely out of their world. I simply took a seat behind them and called their attention to my presence. It was the first time in twenty years we had met. The mother was greatly confused at first, and Mary blushed like a school girl; but after the ice was broken, we had a very pleasant two hours’ ride. Mary asked all about my wife and children, and expressed a desire to see them. “I pitied the woman I once loved, for she looked very unhappy and discontented with life. Her mother is growing quite feeble and she is devoting her life to her parents. I pitied her. This was all there was left of my love. As I looked at the disappointed woman, I thought of how I once held her in my arms and we both swore eternal loyalty to each other. How we had lied to each other. She cast me off as a duty and I forgot her in retaliation. How foolish it would be then to cork ourselves up and never love another.