moments to Philip d'Avranche.

The conditions were almost maliciously favourable, and d'Avranche was
simple and easy as a boy, with his sailor's bonhomie and his naturally
facile spirit. A fateful adaptability was his greatest weapon in life,
and his greatest danger. He saw that Guida herself was unconscious of
the revelation she was making, and he showed no surprise, but he caught
the note of her simplicity, and responded in kind. He flattered her
deftly--not that she was pressed unduly, he was too wise for that. He
took her seriously; and this was not all dissimulation, for her every
word had glamour, and he now exalted her intellect unduly. He had never
met girl or woman who talked just as she did; and straightway, with the
wild eloquence of his nature, he thought he had discovered a new heaven
and a new earth. A spell was upon him. He knew what he wanted when he
saw it. He had always made up his mind suddenly, always acted on the
intelligent impulse of the moment. He felt things, he did not study
them--it was almost a woman's instinct. He came by a leap to the goal of
purpose, not by the toilsome steps of reason. On the instant his
headlong spirit declared his purpose: this was the one being for him in
all the world: at this altar he would light a lamp of devotion, and keep
it burning forever.

"This is my day," he said to himself. "I always knew that love would
come down on me like a storm." Then, aloud, he said to her: "I wish I
knew what you know; but I can't, because my mind is different, my life
has been different. When you go into the world and see a great deal, and
loosen a little the strings of your principles, and watch how sins and
virtues contradict themselves, you see things after a while in a kind of
mist. But you, Guida, you see them clearly because your heart is clear.
You never make a mistake, you are always right because your mind is