be in your neighbourhood at an age when a young woman is impressionable!  You make a public example of me as a for whom women may have a caprice, but that is all; he cannot enchain them; he fascinates passingly; they fall off.  Is it just, for me to be taken up and cast down at your will?  Reflect on that scandal!  Shadows?  Why, a man’s shadow is faithful to him at least.  What are women?  There is not a comparison in nature that does not tower above them! not one that does not hoot at them!  I, throughout my life, guided by absolute deference to their weakness—­paying them politeness, courtesy—­whatever I touch I am happy in, except when I touch women!  How is it?  What is the mystery?  Some monstrous explanation must exist.  What can it be?  I am favoured by fortune from my birth until I enter into relations with women.  But will you be so good as to account for it in your defence of them?  Oh! were the relations dishonourable, it would be quite another matter.  Then they . . .  I could recount . . .  I disdain to chronicle such victories.  Quite another matter.  But they are flies, and I am something more stable.  They are flies.  I look beyond the day; I owe a duty to my line.  They are flies.  I foresee it, I shall be crossed in my fate so long as I fail to shun them—­flies!  Not merely born for the day, I maintain that they are spiritually ephemeral—­Well, my opinion of your sex is directly traceable to you.  You may alter it, or fling another of us men out on the world with the old bitter experience.  Consider this, that it is on your head if my ideal of women is wrecked.  It rests with you to restore it.  I love you.  I discover that you are the one woman I have always loved.  I come to you, I sue you, and suddenly—­you have changed!  ’I have changed:  I am not the same.’  What can it mean?  ‘I cannot marry:  I love no one.’  And you say you do not know what love is—­avowing in the same breath that you did love me!  Am I the empty dream?  My hand, heart, fortune, name, are yours, at your feet; you kick them hence.  I am here—­you reject me.  But why, for what mortal reason am I here other than my faith in your love?  You drew me to you, to repel me, and have a wretched revenge.”

“You know it is not that, Sir Willoughby.”

“Have you any possible suspicion that I am still entangled, not, as I assure you I am, perfectly free in fact and in honour?”

“It is not that.”

“Name it; for you see your power.  Would you have me kneel to you, madam?”

“Oh, no; it would complete my grief.”

“You feel grief?  Then you believe in my affection, and you hurl it away.  I have no doubt that as a poetess you would say, love is eternal.  And you have loved me.  And you tell me you love me no more.  You are not very logical, Laetitia Dale.”

“Poetesses rarely are:  if I am one, which I little pretend to be for writing silly verses.  I have passed out of that delusion, with the rest.”