Explore "A Tragedy of Love and Hate" by Bertha M. Clay on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Praise from a woman's lips is sweet to man. As a matter of course, when this incense is offered they look superior and pretend that it is not needful, yet it is none the less agreeable. Kenelm Eyrle had never known how sweet it was. The only woman he had ever loved, Clarice, had not returned his affection, and had never, perhaps, in the whole course of her life uttered one word of praise or homage to him. So that it was pleasant to him to remember how the beautiful Spanish face had glowed with warmest admiration, how the dark eyes had grown brighter as she had called him a hero.
Of course it was all nonsense -- nothing but woman's nonsense -- this exaggerated manner of looking at everything -- yet it was undeniably pleasant to remember. It did not prevent him from looking forward with something of delight to his next visit to the Dower House. He was not in love with Mrs. Payton, he whose heart lay in Clarice's grave; he was not in love with her, but he found the companionship of a beautiful and intellectual woman very sweet.