“Life buried in a living grave!” cried Denzil, horror-stricken at the idea of such a sacrifice. “Free-will and reason obscured in a cloud of incense! All the great uses of a noble life brought down to petty observances and childish mummeries, prayers and genuflections before waxen relics and dressed-up madonnas. Oh, my dearest girl, next worst only to the dominion of sin is the slavery of a false religion. I would have thee free as air—free and enlightened—released from the trammels of Rome, happy in thyself and useful to thy fellow-creatures.” “You see, Sir Denzil, even if we loved each other, we could never think alike,” Angela said, with a gentle sadness. “Our minds would always dwell far apart. Things that are dear and sacred to me are hateful to you.” “If you love me I could win you to my way of thinking,” he said. “You mean that if I loved you I should love you better than I love God?” “Not so, dear. But you would open your mind to the truth. St. Paul sanctified union between Christian and pagan, and deemed the unbelieving wife sanctified by the believing husband. There can be no sin, therefore, despite my poor mother’s violent opinions, in the union of those who worship the same God, and whose creed differs only in particulars. ‘How knowest thou, O man, whether thou shalt save thy wife?’ Indeed, love, I doubt not my power to wean you from the errors of your early education.” “Cannot you see how wide apart we are? Every word you say widens the gulf betwixt us. Indeed, Sir Denzil, you had best remain my friend. You can be nothing else.” She turned from him almost impatiently. Young, handsome, of a frank and generous nature, he yet lacked the gifts that charm women; or at least this one woman was cold to him. It might be that in his own nature there was a coldness, a something wanting, the fire we miss in that great poet of the age, whose verse could rise to themes transcendent, but never burnt with the white heat of human passion. Papillon came flying along the terrace, her skirts and waving tresses spread wide in the wind, a welcome intruder. “What are you and Sir Denzil doing in the cold? I have news for my dear, dearest auntie. My lord is in a good humour, and _Philaster_ is to be acted by the Duke’s servants, and her ladyship’s footmen are keeping places for us in the boxes. I have only seen three plays in my life, and they were all sad ones. I wish _Philaster_ was a comedy. I should like to see _Love in a Tub_. That must be full of drollery. But his honour likes only grave plays. Be brisk, auntie! The coach will be at the door directly. Come and put on your hood. His lordship says we need no masks. I should have loved to wear a mask. Are you coming to the play, Sir Denzil?” “I know not if I am bidden, or if there be a place for me.”