“One day I kissed her brutally and suddenly—Louise, more fragile of spirit than the tenderest windflower. One day I crushed her lips with my mouth. She struggled away, and the tenderest girl became a spitfire. She reviled me for a weakling. She said that I had no sense of honour, that I was not worthy of being a man—and then she seemed to shrink, her expression of anger fled, and the tears streaming down her face, she sobbed,—
“‘Julien, Julien, won’t you make a great effort to kill your egoism? Cannot you see that your intolerance of all people because they have not the same fervour about poetry as yourself will eventually cripple all your powers? You sneer at Terry, who is one of the dearest boys, because he doesn’t want to hear you quote “The Hound of Heaven”; you sneer at your own father because you say that he doesn’t understand you. Oh, Julien, won’t you try to alter things for your own sake?’
“‘Not for yours?’ I sneered.
“‘For your own, Julien,’ she replied quietly.
“‘You don’t love me?’
“‘Not as you love me, Julien.’
“‘No, of course not! You don’t know what love is! I can eat my heart out for you; dream, dream, dream in London all the time, pine in the smoke, and no one understands me. No one! The poet is always the outcast, from Christ downwards. The world smashes and destroys genius—the genius that is always trying to make others see the beauty in the world, and make humanity happier.’
“‘No, not an outcast, Julien: a beloved friend who will rise above introspection, and be happy. But if that man be caged by egoism, isn’t it best to try to undo the door of that cage? Oh, Julien, if only you would believe.’
“She was distressed, and at the thought of hurting her a devil in me rejoiced. She had called Terry one of the dearest of boys. I seized upon the remark.
“‘No doubt you are in love with Terry, who is blue-eyed and has such nice wavy hair. Well, go and marry him. I shall never ask you to marry me again. Good-bye, Louise.’