But the poet did not shrink even from that. “I don’t think a woman could be interesting to me—except in so far as she was growing. And she must always know that if she stopped growing, she would cease to be interesting. That is not a matter of anybody’s will, it seems to me—it is a fact of soul-chemistry.”
“I don’t think you will find many women to love you on that basis,” said Corydon.
“I never expected to find but one,” was Thyrsis’ reply; “and I may not find even one.”
She sat watching him for a moment. “I had never realized the sublimity of your egotism,” she said. “It would never occur to you to judge anyone else by your own standards, would it?”
“That is very well put,” laughed Thyrsis. “As a matter of fact, I have a maxim that I count all things lost in the world but my own soul.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I can depend on my own soul; and I have not yet met anything else in life of which I can say that.”
Again there was a pause. “You are as hard as iron!” exclaimed the girl.
“I am harder than anything you can find for your simile,” he answered. “I know simply that there is no force existing that can turn me from my task.”
“You might meet some woman who would fascinate you.”