'My dear fellow,' exclaimed his friend, 'I could not have said more myself.'
The other continued, ignoring his interruption.
'She has had great luck. She has been brought up by an old eccentric, on the English system of growing up as she liked. And no harm has come of it, at least until it gave you the occasion of making love to her.'
'You are candid, Tregellan!'
'Let her go, Sebastian, let her go,' he continued, with increasing gravity. 'Consider what a transplantation; from this world of Ploumariel where everything is fixed for her by that venerable old Curé, where life is so easy, so ordered, to yours, ours; a world without definitions, where everything is an open question.'
'Exactly,' said the artist, 'why should she be so limited? I would give her scope, ideas. I can't see that I am wrong.'
'She will not accept them, your ideas. They will trouble her, terrify her; in the end, divide you. It is not an elastic nature. I have watched it.'
'At least, allow me to know her,' put in the artist, a little grimly.
Tregellan shook his head.
'The Breton blood; her English mother: passionate Catholicism! a touch of Puritan! Have you quite made up your mind, Sebastian?'