She understands us, or seems to do so to our own better understanding of ourselves.

Happy the man who is thus understood! Happy even he who imagines that he is, because of her eager wish to comprehend; fortunate, indeed, if in this one respect he never comes to see too clearly.
No such blissful infatuation falls to the lot of the Far Oriental.
He never is the dupe of his own desire, the willing victim of his self-illusion.

He is never tempted to reveal himself, and by thus revealing, realize.

No loving appreciation urges him on toward the attainment of his own ideal.

That incitement to be what he would seem to be, to become what she deems becoming, he fails to feel.