forgetting) that she was a lady talking to a gentleman.

"A village girl is as capable of passion as you or I," replied he, and
had he not remembered (what he was somewhat apt to forget) that he was a
gentleman talking to a lady, he would have added: "And a great deal more
so than you." Miss Le Pettit, who considered that he _had_ forgotten
it, gave the little movement known as "bridling," which reared her
ringletted head a trifle higher on her white shoulders, then decided to
front the obnoxious word bravely as a woman of the world. She had met
with it chiefly in books where it was used solely to denote anger.
There had been, for instance, the tale of "Henry: or, the Fatal Effect
of Passion." ... Henry had slain a school-fellow in his rage, and had
been duly hanged; yet something told Miss Le Pettit that was not how
Mr. Constantine was using the word.... She rose to it splendidly.

"Passion ... and pray where do you find such a thing in this story of
the vanity of a child of fifteen?"

"In the usual place, ma'am," said Mr. Constantine (now entirely
forgetting that which Miss Le Pettit ever remembered)--"in her soul.
Did you think it merely a thing of the body? The body may be the
objective of passion, but the quality itself is what is meant by the
word. It is generated in the soul and may pour itself into strange
vessels."

"Or even shower its ardours upon a piece of white riband?" cried Miss Le
Pettit, with a titter.

"Shall we say upon Beauty itself?" corrected Mr. Constantine more
gravely than he had yet spoken. Then, with a smile, he elaborated: