conceived the senate the only legitimate sphere. She said, she hinted,
nothing to Constance; but she suffered nature, youth, and companionship to
exercise their sway.

And the complexion of Godolphin's feelings for Constance Vernon did indeed
resemble love--was love itself, though rather love in its romance than its
reality. What were those of Constance for him? She knew not herself at
that time. Had she been of a character one shade less ambitious, or less
powerful, they would have been love, and love of no common character. But
within her musing, and self-possessed, and singularly constituted mind,
there was, as yet, a limit to every sentiment, a chain to the wings of
every thought, save those of one order; and that order was not of love.
There was a marked difference, in all respects, between the characters of
the two; and it was singular enough, that that of the woman was the less
romantic, and composed of the simpler materials.

A volume of Wordsworth's most exquisite poetry had then just appeared.
"Is not this wonderful?" said Godolphin, reciting some of those lofty,
but refining thoughts which characterise the Pastor of modern poets.

Constance shook her head.

"What! you do not admire it?"

"I do not understand it."

"What poetry do you admire?"

"This."