To the boy-lover, his mistress is only something less than a divinity.

He believes in her truth as in his own; in her purity, as in the sun at noon.

Her practised arts of voice and manner are, in his eyes, the unstudied graces that spring as naturally from her beauty as the scent from the flower.

Single-hearted himself, it seems impossible that she whom he adores should trifle with the most sacred sentiment he has ever known.

Conscious of his own devotion, he cannot conceive that his wealth is poured forth in vain, and that he is but the plaything of her idle hours.