"You forget your numerous enemies!" said Lucio, still morosely regarding her. "No, I do not forget them,"--she returned,--"But--I forgive them! They can do me no harm. As long as I do not lower myself, no one else can lower me. If my own conscience is clear, no reproaches can wound. My life is open to all,--people can see how I live, and what I do. I try to do well,--but if there are those who think I do ill, I am sorry,--and if my faults can be amended I shall be glad to amend them. One must have enemies in this world,--that is, if one makes any sort of position,--people without enemies are generally nonentities. All who succeed in winning some little place of independence must expect the grudging enmity of hundreds who cannot find even the smallest foothold, and are therefore failures in the battle of life,--I pity these sincerely, and when they say or write cruel things of me, I know it is only spleen and disappointment that moves both their tongues and pens, and freely pardon them. They cannot hurt or hinder me,--in fact, no one can hurt or hinder me but myself." I heard the trees rustle slightly,--a branch cracked,--and peering through the leaves, I saw that Lucio had advanced a step closer to where Mavis stood. A faint smile was on his face, softening it wonderfully and giving an almost supernatural light to his beautiful dark features. "Fair philosopher, you are almost a feminine Marcus Aurelius in your estimate of men and things!"--he said; "But--you are still a woman--and there is one thing lacking to your life of sublime and calm contentment--a thing at whose touch philosophy fails, and wisdom withers at its root. Love, Mavis Clare!--lover's love,--devoted love, blindly passionate,--this has not been yours as yet to win! No heart beats against your own,--no tender arms caress you,--you are alone. Men are for the most part afraid of you,--being brute fools themselves, they like their women to be brute fools also,--and they grudge you your keen intellect,--your serene independence. Yet which is best?--the adoration of a brute fool, or the loneliness pertaining to a spirit aloft on some snowy mountain-peak, with no companions but the stars? Think of it!--the years will pass, and you must needs grow old,--and with the years will come that solitary neglect which makes age bitter. Now, you will doubtless wonder at my words--yet believe me I speak the truth when I say that I can give you love,--not _my_ love, for I love none,--but I can bring to your feet the proudest men in any country of the world as suitors for your hand. You shall have your choice of them, and your own time for choosing,--and whomsoever you love, him you shall wed, ... why--what is wrong with you that you shrink from me thus?" For she had retreated, and was gazing at him in a kind of horror.