What really matters?

I was reading a book a few months ago, where the hero and heroine began their acquaintence fighting. It was her independence matched against his arrogance, her curiosity against his privacy, her life of laughter against his life of misery. So why were they matched together? Why were two opposites supposed to be the perfect fit? By all accounts, it should have been ludicrous. They had absolutely nothing in common, not a single thing. He was a weathly, lonely spy who sincerely hated his life. She was a fine lady, who hated the propriety forced upon her. Not exactly an ideal match.
Yet, when he was literally ordered to spend time with her, he found her lightness, her wit and spirit and laughter, to be exactly the cure he needed for his dreary life. And his hidden depths mystified her, and slowly, very slowly, I can assure you, they found passion and love and joy in each other. Naturally, there was the physical element of attraction as well, but that's besides the point.
But here's what I am getting at. When he proposed to her, or rather, when he asked her father for her hand, he said this: "I love your daughter, sir, and I like her very much as well."
That struck me and I put my book down and stared out at nothing. He loved her, but he liked her. Some people might find that redundant or stupid.
I find that the most romantic thing he could have said.
Years ago, a woman my parents knew told them that she always gave this advice to young men she knew: "When you get married, make sure that you honestly, genuinely like this girl as a person. If you don't, when hard times come, when the fights come,"[here she always added "and they will"], "it will be rather difficult to remember that you love each other when you don't even like each other."
I've always remembered that. And I think it is a very important truth. Too often in these days, I think that women look for love and passion and gratification. They look for someone for the time being.
Why are we selling ourselves short? Why not search for someone who enjoys being with us? Someone who knows what will make us laugh and go to extraordinary ends to see that we do. Someone who we are friends with, who lets us cry when we need to and won't freak out, who will be totally stupid with us and not care, someone who understands us, even if only a little [give him a break, he is a man, after all, so we cannot expect omnipotence]. Why not enjoy an entire lifetime of being blissful instead of a few moments of happy?
Don't get me wrong, I am a huge spokesperson for love. Real, true, deep, and abiding love, the kind that poets write about. I believe that settling for mediocre shouldn't happen, that no woman should give up on dreams. But love needs to be founded in the right way. Not in looks or body types, [though I also insist that physical attraction is important], but in the personality, in the way they treat us, in the person they are underneath everything exterior.
For example, anyone who knows Jane Austen knows Sense and Sensibility. Let us look back to Colonel Brandon and Willoughby. Willoughby was the handsomer man, young and muscular, while Colonel Brandon was an older man, who had seen and felt much. Yet in character, Willoughby was a monster, and Colonel Brandon was kind, gentle, and caring. Marianne fell for the same foolish trick that the rest of women do, vying for the attentions of the more attractive man while ignoring the other.
Now, I know that physical beauty is important, and I am a bit picky myself in looks, but all I'm saying is that looks are not the most important thing. Nor is the passion we may feel with someone the most important.
What really matters? That a man be more interested in who we are than in what we are. And that we do him the same courtesy.