When a selfish man loves--if he _really_ loves--his disintegration begins.
Waking, sleeping, in happiness, in perplexity, abroad, at home, active or at rest, inspired or weary, alone or with others, an exquisite sense of her presence on earth invaded him, subtly refreshing him with every breath he drew.

He walked abroad amid the city crowds companioned by her always; at rest the essence of her stole through and through him till the very air around seemed sweetened.
He heard others mention her, and remained silent, aloof, wrapped in his memories, like one who listens to phantoms in a dream praising perfection.
Lying back in his chair before his canvas, he thought of her often--of odd little details concerning their daily life--details almost trivial--gestures, a glance, a laugh--recollections which surprised him with the very charm of their insignificance.
He remembered that he had never known her to be ungenerous--had never detected in her a wilfully selfish motive.

In his life he had never before believed in a character so utterly unshackled by thought of self.
He remembered that he had never known her to fail in sympathy for any living thing; had never detected in her an indifference to either the happiness or the sorrow of others.

In his life he had never before believed that the command to love one's neighbour had in it anything more significant than the beauty of an immortal theory.

He believed it now because, in her, he had seen it in effortless practice.