"It's a new story then, is it?"

"Oh, it's as old as the hills by now. What's the funny part,
though, is that Lucy has always tried to persuade herself it was
really Matoaca I cared for. You know, I sometimes think that a
woman can convince herself that black is white if she only keeps
trying hard enough--and it's marvellous that she never sees the
difference between wanting to believe a thing and believing it in
earnest. Now, if Matoaca had been the last woman on this earth,
and I the last man, I could never have fallen in love with her,
though I may as well confess that I had my share of fancies when
I was young. It's no use attempting to explain a man's feelings,
of course. Matoaca was almost as great a belle as Lucy, and she
was the handsomest creature you ever laid eyes on--one of those
big, managing women who are forever improving things around them.
Why, I don't believe she could stay two seconds in a man's arms
without improving the set of his cravat. Some men like that kind
of thing, but I never did, and I often think the reason I went so
mad about the other woman was that she came restful after
Matoaca. She was the comforting kind, who, you might be sure,
always saw you at your best; and no matter the mood you were in,
she never wanted to pat and pull you into shape. Lucy always said
she couldn't hold a candle to Matoaca in looks, and I suppose she
was right; but, pretty or plain, that girl had something about
her that went straight to my heart more than thirty years ago and
stays there still. Strange to say, I've tried to believe that it
was half compassion, for she always reminded me of a little wild
bird that somebody had caught and shut up in a cage, and it used
to seem to me sometimes that I could almost hear the fluttering
of her soul. Well, whatever it was, the feeling was the sort that