You must forgive the poet’s license I take. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. “I say!” he said, without any movement. Except for a few early ebullitions of passion, natural to a warm and romantic disposition, and leaving no harmful after-effects—ebullitions that by the standards of the higher truth I feel no one can justly cast a stone at, and of which I for one am by no means ashamed—I come to you a pure and unencumbered man. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Hogarth," he observed, significantly.
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