knowledged readiness for
self-sacrifice," said Lady Engleton. "That, I suppose, is only a
despised horizontal virtue."

"Very frequently."

"Because it is generally more or less abject," Hadria put in. "The
sacrifice is made because the woman is a woman. It is the obeisance of
sex; the acknowledgment of servility; not a simple desire of service."

"The adorable creature is not always precisely obeisant," observed
Theobald.

"No; as I say, she may be capricious and cruel enough to those who treat
her justly and generously" (Hadria's eyes instinctively turned towards
the distant Priory, and Valeria's followed them); "but ask her to
sacrifice herself for nothing; ask her to cherish the selfishness of
some bully or fool; assure her that it is her duty to waste her youth,
lose her health, and stultify her mind, for the sake of somebody's whim,
or somebody's fears, or somebody's absurdity, _then_ she needs no
persuasion. She goes to the stake smiling. She swears the flames are
comfortably warm, no more. Are they diminishing her in size? Oh no--not
at all--besides she _was_ rather large, for a woman. She smiles
encouragement to the other chained figures, at the other stakes. Her
reward? The sense of exalted worth, of humility; the belief that she has
been sublimely virtuous, while the others whom she serves have
been--well the less said about them the better. She has done her duty,
and sent half a dozen souls to hell!"

Henriette uttered a little cry.

"Where one expects to meet her!" Hadria added.

Professor Theobald was chuckling gleefully.

Lady Engleton laughed. "Then, Mrs. Temperley, you _do_ feel rather
wicked yourself, although you don't admire our nice, well-behaved,
average woman."

"Oh, the mere opposite of an error isn't always truth," said Hadria.

"The weather has run to your head!" cried Henriette.

Hadria's eyes kindled. "Yes, it is like wine; clear, intoxicating
sparkling wine, and its fumes are mounting! Why does civilisation never
provide for these moments?"

"What would you have? A modified feast of Dionysius?"

"Why not? The whole earth joins in the festival and sings, except
mankind. Some frolic of music and a stirring dance!--But ah! I suppose,
in this tamed England of ours, we should feel it artificial; we should
fear to let ourselves go. But in Greece--if we could fancy ourselves
there, shorn of our little local personalities--in some classic grove,
on sunlit slopes, all bubbling with t