“Ah, Paul, you are so different to the mere puppets that cringe around and flatter me.”
“If I were like these weaklings, I would not care to live.”
“The very contrast attracts me,” said Ouida, dreamily.
“My God!” said Paul, the truth at length dawning upon him, “can it be possible that you condescend to give me more than a mere passing reflection?”
“There is, Paul. Can you not see that I adore you?”
In a moment their bodies were in close embrace, he enfolding her within his mighty and powerful grasp. After a moment, however, he put her gently from him, and said: “You but mock me by showing me a view of Paradise, only to snatch the entrancing picture from my eyes.”
“No,” she said, exalted through the intensity of her artistic emotion, “I feel a strange, uncontrollable desire to own you, body and soul.”
“I fear, I dream, I dream,” said Paul, but Ouida hurried on:
“You are a giant. You could take any one of these pigmies that flutter and buzz about me, in your arms, and could crush life completely out. I hate them all. I would throttle, and at the same time strangle, the indignation of society. I would bitterly enrage these dogs who fawn on me.”