“Then love had better be locked up. I pointed out in my lecture that these conceits and extravagancies may be very pretty set to the music of rhythm and rhyme and phrase, but that in the conduct of life they can have no place except in the brains of men who have now ceased to exist.” “Ceased to exist?” “I mean that the ages of ungoverned passion have died out. To dwell perpetually on a mere episode in life, to magnify its importance, to deify the poet’s mistress--that, I told my class, is to present a false view of life and to divert poetry from its proper function.” “How did your class receive this view?” “Well--you know--the average girl, I believe, likes to be worshipped. It is very bad for her, because she knows she isn’t worth it and that it cannot last. But she seems to like it. My class looked, on the whole, as if they could not agree with me.” “You would have no love in poetry?” “Not extravagant love. These extravagancies are not found in the nobler poets. They are not in Milton, nor in Pope, nor in Cowper, nor in Wordsworth, nor in Browning. I have not, as you say, experienced the desire for love. In any case, it is only an episode. Poetry should be concerned with the whole life.” “So should love.” “Leonard,” she said, the doubt softening her face, “there may be something deficient in my nature. I sincerely wish that I could understand what you mean by desiring any change.” No, she understood nothing of the sacred passion. “But there must be no difference in consequence. I could not bear to think that my answer even to such a trifle should make any difference between us.” “Such a trifle! Constance, you are wonderful.” “But it seems to me, if the poets are right, that men are always ready to make love: if one woman fails, there are plenty of others.” “Would not that make a difference between us?” “You mean that I should be jealous?” “I could not possibly use the word ‘jealous’ in connection with you, Constance.” She considered the point from an outside position. “I should not be jealous because you were making love to some unseen person, but I should not like another woman standing here between us. I don’t think I could stay here.” “You give me hope, Constance.” “No. It is only friendship. Because, you see, the whole pleasure of having a friend like yourself--a man friend--is unrestrained and open conversation. I like to feel free with you. And I confess that I could not do this if another woman were with us.” She was silent awhile. She became a little embarrassed. “Leonard,” she said, “I have been thinking about you as well as myself. If I thought that this thing was necessary for you--or best for you--I might, perhaps--though I could not give you what you expect--I mean--responsive worship and the rest of it.” “Necessary?” he repeated. There was no sign of Love’s weakness in her face, which had now assumed the professional manner that is historical, philosophical, and analytical.