"Thank you," said Percy, gently; yet Constance thought the tone might have
been warmer. "How beautiful is this hour! Look yonder, the sun's rays
still upon those immortal hills--that lone grey tower amongst the far
plains--the pines around--hearken to their sighing! These are indeed the
scenes of the Dryad and the Faun. These are scenes where we could melt
our whole nature down to love: Nature never meant us for the stern and
arid destinies we fulfil. Look round, Constance, in every leaf of her
gorgeous book, how glowingly is written the one sentence, 'Love and be
happy!' You answer not; to these thoughts you are cold."

"They breathe too much of the Epicurean and his roseleaves for me,"
answered Constance, smilingly. "I love better that stern old tower,
telling of glorious strife and great deeds, than all the softer landscape,
on which the present debasement of the south seems written."

"You and your English," said Godolphin, somewhat bitterly, "prate of the
debasement of my poor Italians in a jargon that I confess almost enrages
me. (Constance coloured and bit her lip.) Debasement! why debasement?
They enjoy themselves: they take from life its just moral; they do not
affect the more violent crimes; they feel their mortality, follow its
common ends, are frivolous, contented, and die! Well; this is debasement.
Be it so. But for what would you exchange it? The hard, cold, ferocious
guilt of ancient Rome; the detestable hypocrisy, the secret villany,
fraud, murder, that stamped republican Venice? The days of glory that you
lament are the days of the darkest guilt; and man shudders when he reads
what the fair moralisers over the soft and idle Italy sigh to recall!"

"You are severe," said Constance, with a pained voice. "Forgive me,
dearest; but you are often severe on my feelings."