touches the brow of genius, and art becomes the heritage of generations yet unborn."
A goddess could not have looked more divine than this woman did, as she poured forth the inspiration of her swelling, throbbing soul. There was silence again between them. But he at length recovered speech, and renewed the attack.
"Ah, Ouida, you are noble and good; why not economize this worth for grander and purer aspirations?"
"Purer aspirations?" she echoed. "Ah, sir, I am bursting with the fullness of rage. Who are you, that gives you the almost divine right to preach against a thing you know not of? You have not looked on life; you have tasted no agony; you have not walked through the blazing furnace of passion."
"God alone knows what my battle has been since the knowledge came to me that I loved you."
"Your passion, sir preacher, moves me not."
"Then, pitilessly, you will send me out into the gloomy world without a ray of hope?"
"Did you not seek to make the earth for me a place without sun or light?"
"But I have made my atonement, and come now to crave pardon for my sin."
"You cannot think thus to move me," said the woman, firmly.
"Can nothing soften your heart of stone?" he appealed.
"Nothing, sir. I hate you strongly. If these were the days of Lucretia Borgia, without compunction I would have you killed. The world can do without you."
