"Would you find it easy?"
"I don't know, having never tried. But if the love is to be unhappy, I wonder people ever let themselves fall into the snare."
"You speak as if you yourself were free from the gentle passion," says Sir Mark, with a searching look, under which I color and feel somewhat confused.
"We were talking of second lovers," I say, hurriedly. "One hears of them. I was advising you to turn your attention that way. Surely it would be possible."
"I don't believe in it; at least to me it would be impossible," replies Sir Mark, in a low tone, and silence falls upon me.
Once again I am in the ball-room at Strangemore, listening to a tale of early love. Is Sir Mark thinking of Marmaduke now, I wonder, and the story he then told me, of his old infatuation for his cousin Blanche? Was it more than an infatuation, a passing fancy? Was it an honest, lasting attachment? And have I secured but the tired, worn-out remnant of a once strong passion?
My changeful spirits, so prone to rise, so easy to dash to earth, again forsake me. Discontented and uncertain, I sit with lowered lids and fretful, puckered brow.
"Do you, then, think a man can love but once in his life?" I force myself to ask, though with open hesitation.
"But once? Is it not enough? Would you condemn any one to suffer the restless misery, the unsatisfied longing, a second time?" responds he moodily.
"No; but it is bad for those who come after," I reply with deep dejection.