the majority of them, or indeed to any but one, for a spontaneous kiss.
There is nothing so encouraging as the spectacle of self-sufficiency.
And when I think of the slim and lovely maidens, running the woods
all night to the note of Diana's horn; moving among the old oaks, as
fancy-free as they; things of the forest and the starlight, not touched
by the commotion of man's hot and turbid life-although there are plenty
other ideals that I should prefer--I find my heart beat at the thought
of this one. 'Tis to fail in life, but to fail with what a grace!
That is not lost which is not regretted. And where--here slips out the
male--where would be much of the glory of inspiring love, if there were
no contempt to overcome?

*****

The drawing-room is, indeed, an artificial place; it is so by our choice
and for our sins. The subjection of women; the ideal imposed upon them
from the cradle, and worn, like a hair-shirt, with so much constancy;
their motherly, superior tenderness to man's vanity and self-importance;
their managing arts-the arts of a civilised slave among good-natured
barbarians-are all painful ingredients and all help to falsify
relations. It is not till we get clear of that amusing artificial scene
that genuine relations are founded, or ideas honestly compared. In
the garden, on the road or the hillside, or TETE-A-TETE and apart from
interruptions, occasions arise when we may learn much from any single
woman; and nowhere more often than in married life. Marriage is one long
conversation, chequered by disputes. The disputes are valueless; they
but ingrain the difference; the heroic heart of woman prompting her
at once to nail her colours to the mast. But in the intervals, almost
unconsciously and with no desire to shine, the whole material of life is
turned over and over, ideas are struck out and shared, the two persons
more and more adapt their notions one to suit the other, and in process
of time, without sound of trumpet, they conduct each other into new
worlds of thought.

*****

Kirstie was now over fifty, and might have sat to a sculptor. Long of
limb, and still light of foot, deep-breasted, robust-loined, her
golden hair not yet mingled with any trace of silver, the years had
but caressed and embellished her. By the lines of a rich and vigorous
maternity, she seemed destined to be the bride of heroes and the mother
of their children.

*****

And lastly, he was dark and she fair, and he was male a