From the depths of his misery, he told himself, while he faced her, that she would be perfect if she were only a little different--if she were only "that kind of woman." She possessed a thousand virtues, he was aware; she was generous, honourable according to her lights, loyal, brave, charitable, and unselfish.

But it is the woman of a single virtue, not a thousand, that a man exalts.
"Yes, I suppose it always meant less to you than to others," he repeated dully.
"It wasn't my fault--why do you blame me ?" she responded quickly.

"Men hold a woman to blame when she doesn't love, however ill they may use her as soon as she does it.

Oh, I know you're not that sort--you needn't explain it.

You are different, and this is why I am half loving you even now.