And why?
Because men were bad and tempted them, and moreover because they were so made.

He did not love Beatrice for any moral quality she might or might not possess, he was far too human, and natural and too little educated to seek reasons for the passion that devoured him.

Since he felt it, it was real.

What other proof of its reality could he need?
It never entered his head to ask for any, and his heart would not have beaten more strongly or less rudely for twenty reasons, on either side.
And now he was strangely happy and strangely calm as he sat there by himself.

Beatrice could never love him.