Mad Barbara by Warwick Deeping

There are few episodes in a man's life that plunge him into that dim forest world of romance where the woodways are full of whisperings and elfin music, and the gleam of moonlight upon the smooth trunks of mighty trees. In youth romance is a habit; in maturity, a mere digression. The boy is naturally an imaginative creature; he dreams dreams of beauty and strangeness, and of women whose lips suck the blood from the heart. The marriage service sobers him. He ceases his excursions into hypothetical raptures, and becomes the steady, workaday busybody, proud of his house, his table, or his garden, paternally patient with poetical youth. Affection takes the place of that inconvenient thing called passion. To romance he is inert, fuddled-unless one illegitimate fire plays havoc with his respectable tranquillity.

And yet those moments of passion when the heart was all flame, incense, and music, and the world a young world gorgeous with dawns and sunsets, those moments of wistful youth come back dearly with a rush of regret that makes gray reality transiently bright with a faint afterglow. What though it be a cheat and an illusion, it is the finest dream that will ever steal through the gates of day. The man may remember it when he figures at his ledger, and may yearn secretly for that rich, sensuous youth which the cumulative common-sense of years has crushed into a faded, foolish fancy.