YEARS ago, when I was a callow 39, I had lunch with a college friend whose intellectual authority over me was considerable; we lunched together often, at least once a month. On that particular occasion I put to him a question that embarrassed me: what if one is deeply in love with a young woman — which was my case — and with age her beauty fades. Will her attraction fatally diminish? Might it be displaced by a sort of repulsion? For instance, when her skin withers and wrinkles, will I still want to kiss the crook of her arms, those arms that I so admire, and, if gallantry pushes me to do so, will I have to avert my eyes?

My friend knew of my fastidiousness and passion for feminine beauty. His usual mode of expression involved elaborate metaphors that snaked around whatever subject was under discussion. This time, however, he got right to the point: “Both you and she,” he said, “will change. You will change in tandem. You won’t see her with the eyes of a young man, but instead with those of someone who is 75 or 80. The eyes of an old man. Your only worry should be that she may throw you out first!”

My friend was right, except that the skin of the Lady in Question, which I believe I still see with the eyes of youth, has remained as beautiful and as capable of moving me as ever.

A secret I have kept until now, however, is my suspicion that sometimes when I look at her today I substitute the image from a photograph taken almost 40 years ago in the garden of a villa on a Greek island, and that when she sees me she performs a similar operation. (By the way, I believe that the Lady in Question is keeping me; she has decided against sending me away.) And I love the Lady in Question as strongly as when we decided to join our lives. The difference is that I am convinced that I love her better: more tenderly and less selfishly. In the not-so-small group of persons I love — children and grandchildren — she comes first.