‘When we two read together you will not say that. Light literature is the garden and the orchard, the fountain, the rainbow, the far view; the view within us as well as without. Our blood runs through it, our history in the quick. The Philistine detests it, because he has no view, out or in. The dry confess they are cut off from the living tree, peeled and sapless, when they condemn it. The vulgar demand to have their pleasures in their own likeness--and let them swamp their troughs! they shall not degrade the fame of noble fiction. We are the choice public, which will have good writing for light reading. Poet, novelist, essayist, dramatist, shall be ranked honourable in my Republic. I am neither, but a man of law, a student of the sciences, a politician, on the road to government and statecraft: and yet I say I have learnt as much from light literature as from heavy-as much, that is, from the pictures of our human blood in motion as from the clever assortment of our forefatherly heaps of bones. Shun those who cry out against fiction and have no taste for elegant writing. For to have no sympathy with the playful mind is not to have a mind: it is a test. But name the books.’ She named one or two. ‘And when does Dr. Alvan date the first year of his Republic?’ ‘Clotilde!’ he turned on her. ‘My good sir?’ ‘These worthy good people who are with you: tell me-to-morrow we leave them!’ ‘Leave them?’ ‘You with me. No more partings. The first year, the first day shall be dated from to-morrow. You and I proclaim our Republic on these heights. All the ceremonies to follow. We will have a reaping of them, and make a sheaf to present to the world with compliments. To-morrow!’ ‘You do not speak seriously?’ ‘I jest as little as the Talmud. Decide at once, in the happy flush of this moment.’ ‘I cannot listen to you, dear sir!’ ‘But your heart beats!’ ‘I am not mistress of it.’ ‘Call me master of it. I make ready for to-morrow.’ ‘No! no! no! A thousand times no! You have been reading too much fiction and verse. Properly I should spurn you.’ ‘Will you fail me, play feu follet, ward me off again?’ ‘I must be won by rules, brave knight!’ ‘Will you be won?’ ‘And are you he--the Alvan who would not be centaur?’ ‘I am he who chased a marsh-fire, and encountered a retiarius, and the meshes are on my head and arms. I fancied I dealt with a woman; a woman needing protection! She has me fast--I am netted, centaur or man. That is between us two. But think of us facing the world, and trust me; take my hand, take the leap; I am the best fighter in that fight. Trust it to me, and all your difficulties are at an end. To fly solves the problem.’ ‘Indeed, indeed, I have more courage than I had,’ said Clotilde. His eyes dilated, steadied, speculated, weighed her. ‘Put it to proof while you can believe in it!’ ‘How is it every one but you thinks me bold?’ she complained.