ow subsided into the languid reaction which is
generally consequent on that treacherous stimulus, a reaction not
unfavourable to passionless reflection. He knew that if he said he
could not conquer his love, he would still cling to hope, and trust to
perseverance and time, he should compel Isaura to forbid his visits and
break off their familiar intercourse. This would be fatal to the chance
of yet winning her, and would also be of serious disadvantage to his
more worldly interests. Her literary aid might become essential to
the journal on which his fortunes depended; and at all events, in her
conversation, in her encouragement, in her sympathy with the pains and
joys of his career, he felt a support, a comfort, nay, an inspiration.
For the spontaneous gush of her fresh thoughts and fancies served
to recruit his own jaded ideas, and enlarge his own stinted range of
invention. No, he could not commit himself to the risk of banishment
from Isaura.

And mingled with meaner motives for discretion, there was one of which
he was but vaguely conscious, purer and nobler. In the society of this
girl, in whom whatever was strong and high in mental organisation became
so sweetened into feminine grace by gentleness of temper and kindliness
of disposition, Rameau felt himself a better man. The virgin-like
dignity with which she moved, so untainted by a breath of scandal, amid
salons in which the envy of virtues doubted sought to bring innocence
itself into doubt, warmed into a genuine reverence the cynicism of his
professed creed.

While with her, while under her chastening influence, he was sensible
of a poetry infused within him far more true to the Camoenae than all he
had elaborated into verse. In these moments he was ashamed of the vices
he had courted as distractions. He imagined that with her all his own,
it would be easy to reform.

No; to withdraw wholly from Isaura was to renounce his sole chance of
redemption.

While these thoughts, which it takes so long to detail, passed rapidly
through his brain, he felt a soft touch on his arm, and, turning his
face slowly, encountered the tender, compassionate eyes of Isaura.

"Be consoled, dear friend," she said, with a smile, half cheering, half
mournful. "Perhaps for all true artists the solitary lot is the best."

"I will try to think so," answered Rameau; "and meanwhile I thank you
with a full heart for the sweetness with which you have checked my
presumption--the presump