Because woman's love is responsive, it never dies. Her love of love is
everlasting. Some threads in the fabric she has woven are like shining
silver; others are sombre, broken, and stained with tears. When a man
has once taught a woman to believe his love is true, she is already,
though unconsciously, won.

All the beauty in woman's life is forever associated with her love.
Violets bring the memory of dead days, when the boy-lover brought them
to her in fragrant heaps. Some women say man's love is selfish, but
there is no one among them who has ever been loved by a boy.

[Sidenote: Some Lost Song]

Broken, hesitant chords set some lost song to singing in her heart. The
break in her lover's voice is like another, long ago. Summer days and
summer fields, silver streams, and clouds of apple blossoms set against
the turquoise sky, bring back the Mays of childhood and all the childish
dreams.

This is another thing a man cannot understand--that every little
tenderness of his wakes the memory of all past tenderness, and for that
very reason is often doubly sweet. This is the explanation of sudden
sadness, of the swift succession of moods, and of lips, shut on sobs,
that sometimes quiver beneath his own.

Woman keeps alive the old ideals. Were it not for her eager efforts,
chivalry would have died long ago. King Arthur's Court is said to be a
myth, and Lancelot and Guenevere were only dreams, but the knightly
spirit still lives in man's love for woman.