Still more, he was convinced that even after him no one would love as he did, and he felt sorry that with his death the secret of true love would be lost to mankind.

But, being a modest young man, he attributed part of his achievement to her--to his beloved.

Not that she was perfection itself, but she came very close to it, as close as an ideal can come to reality.
There were prettier women than she, there were wiser women, but was there ever a better woman?
Did there ever exist a woman on whose face was so clearly and distinctly written that she alone was worthy of love--of infinite, pure, and devoted love?
Max knew that there never were, and that there never would be such women.

In this respect, he had no special peculiarities, just as Adam did not have them, just as you, my reader, do not have them.

Beginning with Grandmother Eve and ending with the woman upon whom your eyes were directed--before you read these lines--the same inscription is to be clearly and distinctly read on the face of every woman at a certain time.