You are a romantic of the romantics. Affection and love are not only physical needs but assume the proportion of a philosophy, a creed, a coat of arms. You radiate, with a sort of fragile and glamorous appeal that makes you popular with the other sex, and though there is nothing abstract or theoretic about your love-nature, you elevate your emotions with a high idealism. An overtone of good taste and breeding lends sanction to your most unconventional escapades and raises you from the purely sensational to the higher planes which your ideology demands, Apparently happy-go-lucky, there’s a brooding sense of the seriousness of life underlying your flippancy. You are conscious of sorrow and tragedy and even have a way of making them up for yourself and your friends where little or no basis for them exists. You are a dramatist at heart and like nothing better than to weave patterns of blighted love, misplaced affection, lost affinities, and the like. Meantime, like as not, the pitied one is leading a contented if unexciting life with his (her) own wife (husband) utterly oblivious of the misery into which you have plunged him. Your imagination is thus capable of running away with you, and your flights of fancy may lead you to make somewhat tangled realities out of the fabric of your dreams. You are an artist at heart, and if strong intellectual indications occur you will do a lot with your romantic imagination in creative literature or in some branch of art.
This is a considerably better position for a woman than for a man, for a woman will be popular socially and protected from want and worry to a considerable extent (except what worries she makes up); while a man, though equally popular, has to fight for the drive and ambition that makes for success.