orers
for a forwardness which ought to be rather imputed to him as a virtue.'

And Orestes stole meekly such a glance of adoration, that Hypatia
blushed, and turned her face away.... After all, she was woman. And she
was a fanatic.... And she was to be an empress.... And Orestes's voice
was as melodious, and his manner as graceful as ever charmed the heart
of woman.

'But Pelagia?' she said, at last, recovering herself.

'Would that I had never seen the creature! But, after all, I really
fancied that in doing what I have done I should gratify you.'

'Me?'

'Surely if revenge be sweet, as they say, it could hardly find a more
delicate satisfaction than in degradation of one who--'

'Revenge, sir? Do you dream that I am capable of so base a passion?'

'I? Pallas forbid!' said Orestes, finding himself on the wrong path
again. 'But recollect that the allowing this spectacle to take place
might rid you for ever of an unpleasant--I will not say rival.'

'How, then?'

'Will not her reappearance on the stage, after all her proud professions
of contempt for it, do something towards reducing her in the eyes of
this scandalous little town to her true and native level? She will
hardly dare thenceforth to go about parading herself as the consort of
a god-descended hero, or thrusting herself unbidden into Hypatia's
presence, as if she were the daughter of a consul.'

'But I cannot--I cannot allow it even to her. After all, Orestes, she
is a woman. And can I, philosopher as I am, help to degrade her even one
step lower than she lies already?'

Hypatia had all but said 'a woman even as I am': but Neo-Platonic
philosophy taught her better; and she checked the hasty assertion of
anything like a common sex or common humanity between two beings so
antipodal.

'Ah' rejoined Orestes, 'that unlucky word degrade! Unthinking that I
was, to use it, forgetting that she herself will be no more degraded in
her own eyes, or any one's else, by hearing again the plaudits of those
"dear Macedonians," on whose breath she has lived for years, than a
peacock when he displays his train. Unbounded vanity and self-conceit
are not unpleasant passions, after all, for their victim. After all, she
is what she is, and her being so is no fault of yours. Oh, it must be!
indeed it must!'

Poor Hypatia! The bait was too delicate, the tempter too wily; and yet
she was ashamed to speak aloud the philosophic dogma which flashed a ray
of comfort and resi