seems like an evil fate."

"It IS an evil fate," said Gervase gloomily. "Enfin, my dear
Helen, we cannot escape from it,--at least, _I_ cannot. But I
never was intended for good things, not even for a lasting love. A
lasting love I feel would bore me. You look amazed; you believe in
lasting love? So do many sweet women. But do you know what symbol
I, as an artist, would employ were I asked to give my idea of Love
on my canvas?"

Helen smiled sadly and shook her head.

"I would paint a glowing flame," said Gervase dreamily. "A flame
leaping up from the pit of hell to the height of heaven, springing
in darkness, lost in light; and flying into the centre of that
flame should be a white moth--a blind, soft, mad thing with
beating, tremulous wings,--that should be Love! Whirled into the
very heart of the ravening fire,--crushed, shrivelled out of
existence in one wild, rushing rapture--that is what Love must be
to me! One cannot prolong passion over fifty years, more or less,
of commonplace routine, as marriage would have us do. The very
notion is absurd. Love is like a choice wine of exquisite bouquet
and intoxicating flavor; it is the most maddening draught in the
world, but you cannot drink it every day. No, my dear Helen; I am
not made for a quiet life,--nor for a long one, I fancy."

His voice unconsciously sank into a melancholy tone, and for one
moment Helen's composure nearly gave way. She loved him as true
women love, with that sublime self-sacrifice which only desires
the happiness of the thing beloved; yet a kind of insensate rage