saying. She left me to flood out her spirits on a friend who was rising
to go; whereupon I recollected myself.

Behold Quinet, poor fellow, Quinet is too earnest for Society. Some
supercilious young creature has cut him to the quick for commencing a
historical remark. Smarting under his rebuke he withdraws a step or two.
A kind voice accosts him; it is Alexandra. "Come here and speak to me,
Mr. Quinet. You always talk what is worth while." "To talk of what is
worth while makes enemies," he answered bitterly: "I am thinking of
giving it up." "You should not do that," she said. "If I were a man I
would think of nothing but the highest things."

The night's sleep was broken by visions of her, as I had just seen her,
so near, so fair. I tried to force my imagination into snatches of
remembrance of her face as colored and clear-outlined as the
reality--bearing the noble expression it had worn when she said "Would
not that be wrong?"

How I sank into self-contempt by comparison!

I wonder if Englishmen feel the passion of love as we French do.

"I love her, I love her," was my burning ejaculation. "Yet how dare I
love her! I am unworthy to stand in her presence! There is only left for
me to purify and burn and subdue my heart until it is completely worthy
of her holy sight. Worthy of her! And what is worthy of her?"

Again her presence passed before me and a voice seemed to cry "The
highest things!"