Mr. Thwaite,"--and this he said laughing,--"when you also will be
less hot in your abhorrence of a nobility than you are now."

"Never!"

"Ah;--'tis so that young men always make assurances to themselves of
their own present wisdom."

"You think then that I should give her up entirely?"

"I would leave her to herself, and to her mother,--and to this young
lord, if he be her lover."

"But if she loves me! Oh, sir, she did love me once. If she loves me,
should I leave her to think, as time goes on, that I have forgotten
her? What chance can she have if I do not interfere to let her know
that I am true to her?"

"She will have the chance of becoming Lady Lovel, and of loving her
husband."

"Then, sir, you do not believe in vows of love?"

"How am I to answer that?" said the poet. "Surely I do believe in
vows of love. I have written much of love, and have ever meant to
write the truth, as I knew it, or thought that I knew it. But the
love of which we poets sing is not the love of the outer world. It
is more ecstatic, but far less serviceable. It is the picture of
that which exists, but grand with imaginary attributes, as are the
portraits of ladies painted by artists who have thought rather of
their art than of their models. We tell of a constancy in love which
is hardly compatible with the usages of this as yet imperfect world.
Look abroad, and see whether girls do not love twice, and young men
thrice. They come together, and rub their feathers like birds, and
fancy that each has found in the other an eternity of weal or woe.
Then come the causes of their parting. Their fathers perhaps are
Capulets and Montagues, but their children, God be thanked, are
not Romeos and Juliets. Or money does not serve, or distance
intervenes, or simply a new face has the poor merit of novelty.
The constancy of which the poets sing is the unreal,--I may almost
say the unnecessary,--constancy of a Juliet. The constancy on
which our nature should pride itself is that of an Imogen. You read
Shakespeare, I hope, Mr. Thwaite."

"I know the plays you quote, sir. Imogen was a king's daughter, and
married a simple gentleman."

"I would not say that early vows should mean nothing," continued the
poet, unwilling to take notice of the point made against him. "I like
to hear that a girl has been true to her first kiss. But this girl
will have the warrant of all the world to justify a second choice.
And can you think that because your compa