“Wrong! No.”
“Well, if I tell you the truth you will call me a lunatic. You have heard of people being haunted by hallucinations?” Aubrey nodded. “I am one of those persons. Seven weeks ago I saw Dianthe first, but not in the flesh. Hallow-eve I spoke to her in the garden of the haunted house, but not in the flesh. I thought it strange to be sure, that this face should lurk in my mind so much of the time; but I never dreamed what a crisis it was leading up to. The French and German schools of philosophy have taught us that going to places and familiar passages in books, of which we have had no previous knowledge, is but a proof of Plato’s doctrine—the soul’s transmigration, and reflections from the invisible world surrounding us.
“Finally a mad desire seized me to find that face a living reality that I might love and worship it. Then I saw her at the Temple—I found her at the hospital—in the flesh! My desire was realized.”
“And having found her, what then?” He waited breathlessly for the reply.
“I am mightily pleased and satisfied. I will cure her. She is charming; and if it is insanity to be in love with her, I don’t care to be sane.”
Livingston did not reply at once. His face was like marble in its impassiveness. The other’s soft tremulous tones, fearless yet moist eyes and broken sentences, appeared to awaken no response in his breast. Instead, a far-off gleam came into his blue eyes. At last he broke the silence with the words:
“You name it well; it is insanity indeed, for you to love this woman.”
“Why?” asked his friend, constrainedly.
“Because it is not for the best.”
“For her or me?”