“The eternal question, as old as love. Love is so curious! We are always wondering why we are the recipient. Man says to maid and maid says to man: 'Why do you love me?' Why does the bee select the flower he kisses? Or the humming bird that one nectar cup from out the multitude? I don't know. I suppose there are no two beings alike in the whole world. We choose. We mate. I can catalogue your features and describe the traits of the object of my love. But that hardly tells the story. No part of me singled you out. It was all of me. It must be intuition — or chance, as the thunderbolt selects the object it will destroy. The shaft flies through space. It strikes. Who guides it? What guides it? Sometimes the course of love's shaft is straight, swift, and sudden. It may dally along the way for years before it strikes. Love is subtle, my dear — full of moods and whims. As delicate, and as strong, as a silken web. Do you think it well to dissect it?”