She took the papers from him without much interest, and laid them beside her on the seat.  After a time she took them up.  As she read her brows began to knit, and her face grew cold.  These verses were full of that mystical voluptuousness which I said characterised Harvey’s earlier productions; all his rich imagination was employed to centre interest upon moments of half-sensual sensations; the imagery was used in such a way that nature seemed to aid and abet the emotion; out of the heart of things, out of wild enchantment and eternal revelry shot forth into the lives of men the fires of passion.  Nothing could be more unlike the Christ-soul which she worshiped as underlying the universe and on which she had reliance.

“He does not feel pity; he does not understand love,” she murmured.  She felt a cold anger arise; she who had pity for most things felt that a lie had been uttered defiling the most sacred things in the Holy of Holies, the things upon which her life depended.  She could never understand Harvey, although he had been included in the general kindliness with which she treated all who came near her; but here he seemed revealed, almost vaunting an inspiration from the passionate powers who carry on their ancient war against the Most High.

The lights were now beginning to fade about her in the quiet garden when the gate opened, and someone came down the path.  It was Harvey.  In the gloom he did not notice that her usual smile was lacking, and besides he was too rapt in his own purpose.  He hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

“Olive,” he said tremulously, “as I came down the lanes to say good-bye to you my heart rebelled.  I could not bear the thought:  Olive, I have learned so many things from you; your words have meant so much to me that I have taken them as the words of God.  Before I knew you I shrank from pain; I wandered in search of a false beauty.  I see now the purpose of life—­to carry on the old heroic battle for the true; to give the consolation of beauty to suffering; to become so pure that through us may pass that divine pity which I never knew until you spoke, and I then saw it was the root of all life, and there was nothing behind it—­such magic your words have.  My heart was glad this morning for you at this truth, and I saw in it the power which would transfigure the earth.  Yet all this hope has come to me through you; I half hold it still through you.  To part from you now—­it seems to me would be like turning away from the guardian of the heavenly gateway.  I know I have but little to bring you.  I must make all my plea how much you are to me when I ask can you love me.”

She had hardly heard a word of all he said.  She was only conscious that he was speaking of love.  What love?  Had he not written of it?  It would have emptied Heaven into the pit.  She turned and faced him, speaking coldly and deliberately: