To tell you of our new life in any detail would be no easy matter. It was made up of a series of frivolous diversions which, though delightful to us, would be quite meaningless to anyone who heard me recount them. You know what it is to love a woman. You know how short the days seem and how loving the ease with which you let yourself drift towards the morrow. You are acquainted with that general neglect of things which is bred of violent, trusting, requited love. Any mortal being who is not the woman you love seems superfluous to creation. You regret having tossed pieces of your heart to other women, and you cannot imagine the prospect of ever holding a hand which is not the hand that you now hold clasped in yours. Your brain will entertain neither work nor memories, nor anything which might divert it from the one thought with which it is endlessly regaled. Each day you discover some new attraction in your mistress, some unknown sensual delight.

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