“She is a wonderful creature,” I said.  “Ever since she came among us, I have been dimly sensible of just this charm which you have brought out.  But it was never absolutely visible till now.  She is as lovely as a flower!”

“Well, say so if you like,” answered Zenobia.  “You are a poet,—­at least, as poets go nowadays,—­and must be allowed to make an opera-glass of your imagination, when you look at women.  I wonder, in such Arcadian freedom of falling in love as we have lately enjoyed, it never occurred to you to fall in love with Priscilla.  In society, indeed, a genuine American never dreams of stepping across the inappreciable air-line which separates one class from another.  But what was rank to the colonists of Blithedale?”

“There were other reasons,” I replied, “why I should have demonstrated myself an ass, had I fallen in love with Priscilla.  By the bye, has Hollingsworth ever seen her in this dress?”

“Why do you bring up his name at every turn?” asked Zenobia in an undertone, and with a malign look which wandered from my face to Priscilla’s.  “You know not what you do!  It is dangerous, sir, believe me,

to tamper thus with earnest human passions, out of your own mere idleness, and for your sport.  I will endure it no longer!  Take care that it does not happen again!  I warn you!”

“You partly wrong me, if not wholly,” I responded.  “It is an uncertain sense of some duty to perform, that brings my thoughts, and therefore my words, continually to that one point.”

“Oh, this stale excuse of duty!” said Zenobia, in a whisper so full of scorn that it penetrated me like the hiss of a serpent.  “I have often heard it before, from those who sought to interfere with me, and I know precisely what it signifies.  Bigotry; self-conceit; an insolent curiosity; a meddlesome temper; a cold-blooded criticism, founded on a shallow interpretation of half-perceptions; a monstrous scepticism in regard to any conscience or any wisdom, except one’s own; a most irreverent propensity to thrust Providence aside, and substitute one’s self in its awful place,—­out of these, and other motives as miserable as these, comes your idea of duty!  But, beware, sir!  With all your fancied acuteness, you step blindfold into these affairs.  For any mischief that may follow your interference, I hold you responsible!”

It was evident that, with but a little further provocation, the lioness would turn to bay; if, indeed, such were not her attitude already.  I bowed, and not very well knowing what else to do, was about to withdraw.  But, glancing again towards Priscilla, who had retreated into a corner, there fell upon my heart an intolerable burden of despondency, the purport of which I could not tell, but only felt it to bear reference to her.  I approached and held out my hand; a gesture, however, to which she made no response.  It was always one of her peculiarities that she seemed to shrink from even the most friendly touch, unless it were Zenobia’s or Hollingsworth’s.  Zenobia, all this while, stood watching us, but with a careless expression, as if it mattered very little what might pass.