Dumas draws a fine distinction when he says: "A man may have two
passions but never two loves: whoever has loved twice has never loved at
all." If this is true, the dividing line is so exceedingly fine that it
is beyond woman's understanding, and it may be surmised that even man
does not fully realise it until he is old and grey.

[Sidenote: The Cords of Memory]

Yet somewhere, in every man's heart, is hidden a woman's face. To that
inner chamber no other image ever finds its way. The cords of memory
which hold it are strong as steel and as tender as the heart-fibre of
which they are made.

There is no time in his life when those eyes would not thrill him and
those lips make him tremble--no hour when the sound of that voice would
not summon him like a trumpet-call.

No loyalty or allegiance is powerful enough to smother it within his own
heart, in spite of the conditions to which he may outwardly conform.
Other passions may temporarily hide it even from his own sight, yet in
reality it is supreme, from the day of its birth to the door of his
grave.

He may be happily married, as the world counts happiness, and She may be
dead--but never forgotten. No real love or hate is wrought upon by
Lethe. The thousand dreams of her will send his blood in passionate flow
and the thousand memories of her whiten his face with pain. Friendship
is intermittent and passion forgets, but man's single love is eternal.