that day of greater enlightenment a large body of now much esteemed art will become ridiculous.  Practically all the literature of strenuous passion will go by the board or will be relegated to the medical library where it belongs; and it, and the annals of violence found in the daily newspapers of our remote time will be cited as documentary proof of the low economic and hygienic conditions prevailing in that almost barbarous period.  For certain it is that the human animal when healthy and well fed is invariably peaceable and kindly and tolerant—­up to the limits of selfishness, and even encroaching upon those limits.

Of writing rubbish about love and passion there is no end—­and will be no end until the venerable traditional nonsense about those interesting emotions shares the fate that should overtake all the cobwebs of ignorance thickly clogging the windows and walls of the human mind.  Of all the fiddle-faddle concerning passion probably none is more shudderingly admired than the notion that one possessed of an overwhelming desire for another longs to destroy that other.  It is true there is a form of murderous mania that involves practically all the emotions, including of course the passions—­which are as readily subject to derangement as any other part of the human organism.  But passion in itself—­even when it is so powerful that it dominates the whole life, as in the case of Frederick Norman—­passion in itself is not a form of mental derangement in the medical sense.  And it does not produce acute selfishness, paranoiac egotism, but a generous and beautiful kind of unselfishness.  Not from the first moment of Fred Norman’s possession did he wish to injure or in any way to make unhappy the girl he loved.  He longed to be happy with her, to have her happy with and through him.  He represented his plotting to himself as a plan to make her happier than she ever had been; as for ultimate consequences, he refused to consider them.  The most hardened rake, when passion possesses him, wishes all happiness to the woman of his pursuit.  Indifference, coldness—­the natural hard-heartedness of the normal man—­returns only when the inspiration and elevation of passion disappear in satiety.  The man or the woman who continues to inspire passion continues to inspire tenderness and considerateness.

So when Norman left Dorothy that Sunday afternoon, he, being a normal if sore beset human being, was soon in the throes of an agonized remorse.  There may have been some hypocrisy in it, some struggling to cover up the baser elements in his infatuation for her.  What human emotion of upward tendency has not at least a little of the varnish of hypocrisy on certain less presentable spots in it?  But in the main it was a creditable, a manly remorse, and not altogether the writhings of jealousy and jealous fear of losing her.