And she, had she known what lay behind; those days when he knelt
before her, swore that his only dream was to save her from all pain.
Passion lies dead; it is a flame that burns out quickly. The most
beautiful face in the world grows indifferent to us when we have sat
opposite it every morning at breakfast, every evening at supper, for
a brief year or two. Passion is the seed. Love grows from it, a
tender sapling, beautiful to look upon, but wondrous frail, easily
broken, easily trampled on during those first years of wedded life.
Only by much nursing, by long caring-for, watered with tears, shall
it grow into a sturdy tree, defiant of the winds, 'neath which Darby
and Joan shall sit sheltered in old age.

They had commonsense, brave hearts. Darby had expected too much.
Darby had not made allowance for human nature which he ought to have
done, seeing how much he had of it himself. Joan knows he did not
mean it. Joan has a nasty temper; she admits it. Joan will try,
Darby will try. They kiss again with tears. It is a workaday world;
Darby and Joan will take it as it is, will do their best. A little
kindness, a little clasping of the hands before night comes.

[Many ways of Love]

Youth deems it heresy, but I sometimes wonder if our English speaking
way is quite the best. I discussed the subject once with an old
French lady. The English reader forms his idea of French life from
the French novel; it leads to mistaken notions. There are French
Darbys, French Joans, many thousands of them.

"Believe me," said my old French friend, "your English way is wrong;
our way is not perfect, but it is the better, I am sure. You leave