One does not need to be a disciple of Freudianism to understand that no experience leaves a memory so ineradicable as does almost any really moving affair of the heart. The dear friend of girlhood or boyhood may be quite forgotten, the confrontation of death itself, or the missing of some entrance into a greater life may be lost in the closed chambers of the past, but the soul is still haunted so long as life lasts by the memories of the love-affairs of long ago. You, madam, have never told your husband or your children about it; but you still feel a strange thrill when you remember the handsome boy who went away from you leaving you broken-hearted long, long ago, when you wore short dresses, and in the opinions of your friends, had no thought save for your books and music lessons and games.
He never uttered a word of love to you; but the clasp of his hand had something significant about it, and his beautiful eyes looked volumes into yours just before they lowered in that modesty which, when a boy still possesses it, is something more impassible than that of a girl. Save in your dreams, he never kissed you; his arm never stole about your waist; he never pressed you to his bosom. There was nothing between you nothing but that which will last till the day of your death. You know just how blue his eyes were. You never confuse those skyey orbs with the hazel ones of the other young man, who also went away after he had made love to you went away and never came back. No woman has better loved her husband and the children: you can not imagine their having any other father; but neither husband nor children have any idea of these ghosts beautiful ghosts which haunt the quiet halls of your soul and fill them with a music that is just sad enough to give you a strange pleasure. You have met one or two of these ghosts in the flesh, you remember; and you desire no more meetings of the sort. That beefy business man who was the Harold of the brown hair he came and succeeded in taking from you one of the dearest ghosts in the castle!
And you, sir, as you sit on the lounge at the club grumbling at the way your putting has gone to pieces, an