There had been, for instance, the tale of "Henry: or, the Fatal Effect
of Passion." ... Henry had slain a school-fellow in his rage, and had
been duly hanged; yet something told Miss Le Pettit that was not how
Mr. Constantine was using the word.... She rose to it splendidly.
"Passion ... and pray where do you find such a thing in this story of
the vanity of a child of fifteen?"
"In the usual place, ma'am," said Mr. Constantine (now entirely
forgetting that which Miss Le Pettit ever remembered)--"in her soul.
Did you think it merely a thing of the body? The body may be the
objective of passion, but the quality itself is what is meant by the
word. It is generated in the soul and may pour itself into strange
vessels."
"Or even shower its ardours upon a piece of white riband?" cried Miss Le
Pettit, with a titter.
"Shall we say upon Beauty itself?" corrected Mr. Constantine more
gravely than he had yet spoken. Then, with a smile, he elaborated:
"For as passion is in the soul, so is beauty in the heart, and hearts
have differing vision. That was Loveday's desire. Translate this paltry
thing into terms of other ambitions--and where is any one of us then?
Unless, indeed, we are so bloodless, so without imagination, that we
cannot but be content with our lot just as it is."
Miss Le Pettit, who had never seen reason for anything but contentment,
and looked upon it as a Christian virtue, demurred with:--
"The whole affair is so ridiculously out of proportion.
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