Lygia and in the Christian reverence of her spiritual purity at the same
time. It is the miracle of soul in sex.

Every clean-hearted youth that has had the happiness to marry a good
woman--and, thank Heaven, clean youths and good women are thick as
leaves in Vallambrosa in this sturdy old world of ours--every such youth
has had his day of holy conversion, his touch of the wand conferring
upon him the miracle of love, and he has been a better and wiser man for
it. Not sense love, not the instinctive, restless love of matter for
matter, but the love that descends like the dove amid radiance.

* * * * *

We've all seen that bridal couple; she is as pretty as peaches; he is as
proud of her as if she were a splendid race horse; he glories in knowing
she is lovely and accepts the admiration offered to her as a tribute to
his own judgment, his own taste and even his merit, which obtained her.
There is a certain amount of silliness in her which he soon detects,
a touch of helplessness, and unsophistication in knowledge of worldly
things that he yet feels is mysteriously guarded against intrusion upon
and which makes companionship with her sometimes irksome. He feels
superior and uncompensated; from the superb isolation of his greater
knowledge, courage and independence, he grants to her a certain tender
pity and protection; he admits her faith and purity and--er--but--you
see, he is sorry she is not quite the well poised and noble creature he
is! Mr. Youngwed is at this time passing through the mental digestive
process of feeling his oats. He is all right, though, if he is half as
good as he thinks he is. He has not been touched by the live wire of
experience--yet; that's all.