because I think that she may love me seriously, although I am only
playing with her. I pity the poor heart I have wantonly ensnared. And,
all the time, she is pitying me for exactly the same reason! She is
conscience-stricken because she is only indulging in the luxury of
being adored 'by far the cleverest man she has ever met,' and is as
heart-whole as I am! Ha, ha! That is the basis of the religion of love
of which poets are the high-priests. Each worshipper knows that his own
love is either a transient passion or a sham copied from his favorite
poem; but he believes honestly in the love of others for him. Ho, ho! Is
it not a silly world, my dear?"

"You had no right to make love to Agatha. You have no right to make love
to anyone but me; and I won't bear it."

"You are angry because Agatha has infringed your monopoly. Always
monopoly! Why, you silly girl, do you suppose that I belong to you, body
and soul?--that I may not be moved except by your affection, or think
except of your beauty?"

"You may call me as many names as you please, but you have no right to
make love to Agatha."

"My dearest, I do not recollect calling you any names. I think you said
something about a selfish brute."

"I did not. You called me a silly girl."

"But, my love, you are."

"And so YOU are. You are thoroughly selfish."