Ephesus as beautiful as she.'

'That may be so, but thou must not take me to be indifferent to the
charms of the fair sex because I do not admire Nika's loveliness and
think it beyond compare. I may find loveliness in another form; it may
be in the virtues of the soul, or spirit, whichever you may choose to
name that awful thing. Behind a less lovely face than hers may be
enshrined a splendid harmony of thinking, active life, which is building
up its destiny, and will continue so to do through the great aeons, down
the grand vista of the future, when the face once so fair to look upon
has passed into base mould, and been blown hither and thither, the sport
of every breeze. To love beauty only is like plucking an apple of Sodom,
which has a fair rind to look at, but when pressed sends out little
clouds of dust and leaves you nothing but the broken shell.'

'Chios, my friend, I thought thou wert an artist, but lo, thou art a
philosopher also! And, if thou art not in love, well, I have never been
in Rome! I shall wait; it will develop. I shall know. Well, good-bye,
Chios. I have too long kept thee from thy work. The world waits for thy
beautiful picture--I must not hinder. Good-bye. We meet at the house of
Lucius, where I know thou at least art ever welcome.'

When he had gone, Chios went within, and threw himself upon a seat,
clasping his head with both hands. It seemed as if some great agony
would rend his being.

'What am I,' he cried, 'to be made the sport of fate? Why this great
conflict within me? Why this uprising of my nature to war? He was
true--I love hopelessly, and would to the gods I could quench it! If it
would lie peacefully in my heart like a loving child upon its mother's
bosom I would not care; but it is not so. A year or so ago that love was
like a summer wind, but now it rushes through me with the terrible roar
of a mighty storm, and tosses me to and fro like a ship whirled in a
hurricane. What raises this great tempest? It is not I, Saronia! It is
not Chios! I could have loved thee deeply when thou wert a slave, and
would have at all hazard plucked thee from thy low estate, and lived for
thee; but now I know thou never canst be mine, and fain would let thee
rest, and never trouble, but for this mighty power which forces me
onwards to declare to thee a love as pure as angels ever knew, but which
would be a sacrilege both damned and deep were I to whisper such into
thy soul. No, no; it must not be so