Her ethics and her morals were becoming what wide, desultory, and unrestrained reading was making them; her passion for happiness and for truth, her restless intelligence, were prematurely forming her character. There was no one in authority to tell her—check, guide, or direct her in the revolt from dogmatism, pedantry, sophistry and conventionalism. And by this path youthful intelligence inevitably passes, incredulous of snare and pitfall where lie the bones of many a savant under magic blossoms nourished by creeds long dead.
"To bring no sorrow to any one, Louis—that is the way I am trying to live," she said, seriously.
"You are bringing it to me."
"If that is so—then I had better depart as I came and leave you in peace."
"It's too late."
"Perhaps it is not. Shall we try it?"
"Could you recover?"
"I don't know. I am willing to try for your sake."
"Do you want to?" he asked, almost angrily.
"I am not thinking of myself, Louis."