“But you did n't convince me!” said May, hastily.
“Possibly not. I could not expect you to look on life from the same sad eminence I have climbed to; still I think you understood me when I showed you that as air and sunlight are blessings which we enjoy without an effort, so affection, gained without sacrifice, elicits no high sense of self-esteem,—none of that self-love which is but the reflex of real love.”
“Charles would, then, according to your theory, be eminently happy in marrying me, for, to all appearance, the sacrifice would be considerable,” said May, with a half-bitter laugh.
“My theory only applies to us dear May; as for men, they marry from a variety of motives, all prompted by some one or other feature of their selfishness: this one for fortune, that for family influence, the other because he wants a home, and so on.”
“And not for love at all?” broke in May.
“Alas! dearest, the man who affords himself the pleasure of being in love is almost always unable to indulge in any other luxury. It is your tutor creature, there, like Layton, falls in love!”
May smiled, and turned away her head; but the crimson flush of her cheek soon spread over her neck, and Mrs. Morris saw it.
“Yes,” resumed she, as if reflecting aloud, “love is the one sole dissipation of these student men, and, so to say, it runs through the dull-colored woof of their whole after-life, like a single gold thread glittering here and there at long intervals, and it gives them those dreamy fits of imaginative bliss which their quiet helpmates trustfully ascribe to some intellectual triumph. And it is in these the poor curate forgets his sermon, and the village doctor his patient, thinking of some moss-rose he had plucked long ago!”
“Do you believe that, Loo?” asked the girl, eagerly.
“I know it, dear; and what's more, it is these very men are the best of husbands, the kindest and the tenderest. The perfume of an early love keeps the heart pure for many a long year after. Let us take Layton, for instance.”