“Not extravagant love. These extravagancies are not found in the nobler poets. They are not in Milton, nor in Pope, nor in Cowper, nor in Wordsworth, nor in Browning. I have not, as you say, experienced the desire for love. In any case, it is only an episode. Poetry should be concerned with the whole life.”
“So should love.”
“Leonard,” she said, the doubt softening her face, “there may be something deficient in my nature. I sincerely wish that I could understand what you mean by desiring any change.” No, she understood nothing of the sacred passion. “But there must be no difference in consequence. I could not bear to think that my answer even to such a trifle should make any difference between us.”
“Such a trifle! Constance, you are wonderful.”
“But it seems to me, if the poets are right, that men are always ready to make love: if one woman fails, there are plenty of others.”
“Would not that make a difference between us?”
“You mean that I should be jealous?”
“I could not possibly use the word ‘jealous’ in connection with you, Constance.”
She considered the point from an outside position. “I should not be jealous because you were making love to some unseen person, but I should not like another woman standing here between us. I don’t think I could stay here.”
“You give me hope, Constance.”