Let me explain it to you, my dear lady.

Loving to be admired by a man, loving to be petted by him, loving to be caressed by him, and loving to be praised by him, is not loving a man.

All these may be when a woman has no power of loving at all,--they may all be simply because she loves herself, and loves to be flattered, praised, caressed, coaxed; as a cat likes to be coaxed and stroked, and fed with cream, and have a warm corner.
But all this _is not love_.

It may exist, to be sure, where there _is_ love; it generally does.

But it may also exist where there is no love.
Love, my dear ladies, is _self-sacrifice_; it is a life out of self and in another.