“Why am I unarmed!” exclaimed Wilfrid, violently.
“You are out of temper,” said Seraphita, smiling. “Come, have I not spoken to you like those Parisian women whose loves you tell of?”
Wilfrid sat down, crossed his arms, and looked gloomily at Seraphita. “I forgive you,” he said; “for you know not what you do.”
“You mistake,” she replied; “every woman from the days of Eve does good and evil knowingly.”
“I believe it,” he said.
“I am sure of it, Wilfrid. Our instinct is precisely that which makes us perfect. What you men learn, we feel.”
“Why, then, do you not feel how much I love you?”
“Because you do not love me.”
“Good God!”
“If you did, would you complain of your own sufferings?”