The world was the principal topic of dissension between these lovers.  His opinion of the world affected her like a creature threatened with a deprivation of air.  He explained to his darling that lovers of necessity do loathe the world.  They live in the world, they accept its benefits, and assist it as well as they can.  In their hearts they must despise it, shut it out, that their love for one another may pour in a clear channel, and with all the force they have.  They cannot enjoy the sense of security for their love unless they fence away the world.  It is, you will allow, gross; it is a beast.  Formally we thank it for the good we get of it; only we two have an inner temple where the worship we conduct is actually, if you would but see it, an excommunication of the world.  We abhor that beast to adore that divinity.  This gives us our oneness, our isolation, our happiness.  This is to love with the soul.  Do you see, darling?

She shook her head; she could not see it.  She would admit none of the notorious errors, of the world; its backbiting, selfishness, coarseness, intrusiveness, infectiousness.  She was young.  She might, Willoughby thought, have let herself be led; she was not docile.  She must be up in arms as a champion of the world; and one saw she was hugging her dream of a romantic world, nothing else.  She spoilt the secret bower-song he delighted to tell over to her.  And how, Powers of Love! is love-making to be pursued if we may not kick the world out of our bower and wash our hands of it?  Love that does not spurn the world when lovers curtain themselves is a love—­is it not so?—­that seems to the unwhipped, scoffing world to go slinking into basiation’s obscurity, instead of on a glorious march behind the screen.  Our hero had a strong sentiment as to the policy of scorning the world for the sake of defending his personal pride and (to his honour, be it said) his lady’s delicacy.

The act of seeming put them both above the world, said retro Sathanas!  So much, as a piece of tactics:  he was highly civilized:  in the second instance, he knew it to be the world which must furnish the dry sticks for the bonfire of a woman’s worship.  He knew, too, that he was prescribing poetry to his betrothed, practicable poetry.  She had a liking for poetry, and sometimes quoted the stuff in defiance of his pursed mouth and pained murmur:  “I am no poet;” but his poetry of the enclosed and fortified bower, without nonsensical rhymes to catch the ears of women, appeared incomprehensible to her, if not adverse.  She would not burn the world for him; she would not, though a purer poetry is little imaginable, reduce herself to ashes, or incense, or essence, in honour of him, and so, by love’s transmutation, literally be the man she was to marry.  She preferred to be herself, with the egoism of women.  She said it:  she said:  “I must be myself to be of any value to you, Willoughby.”  He was indefatigable in his lectures on the aesthetics of love.  Frequently, for an indemnification to her (he had no desire that she should be a loser by ceasing to admire the world), he dwelt on his own youthful ideas; and his original fancies about the world were presented to her as a substitute for the theme.