Our minds shoot upward; theirs, full of repose and simplicity, rested nearer the earth.  Those of us in whom the spirit of Hellas beats more powerfully consider the beautiful a necessity of life, and search after it eagerly, but instinctively demand that Aspasia should have the eyes of Dante’s Beatrice.  A similar longing is planted within me.  When I think of it, that a beautiful human animal like Laura belongs to me and will belong as long as I wish it, a twofold joy gets hold of me,—­the joy of the man and the delight of the artist; and yet there is a want and something missing.  On the altar of my Greek temple there is a marble goddess; but my Gothic shrine is empty.  I admit that in her I have found something bordering upon the perfect, and I defend myself from a suspicion that this perfection throws a big shadow.  I thought once that Goethe’s words, “You shall be like unto gods and beasts,” embraced all life and were the highest expression of his wisdom; now, when I follow the commandment, I feel that he omitted the angel.

17 April.

Mr. Davis came into the room when I was sitting at Laura’s feet, my head leaning against her knees.  His bloodless face and dim eyes showed no feeling beyond indifferent sullenness.  In his soft slippers embroidered with Indian suns, he shuffled across the room, and into the library.  Laura looked magnificent, her eyes flashing with unrestrained wrath.  I rose and awaited what would happen.  A thought crossed my mind that Mr. Davis might come back, a revolver in his hand.  In such a case I should have pitched him through the window, revolver, plaid, and Indian slippers.  But he did not come back; I waited a long time in vain.  I do not know what he was doing there; whether he was thinking over his misery, weeping, or perfectly indifferent.  We all three met again at lunch, and he was sitting there as if nothing unusual had happened.  Perhaps it was my fancy that made me think that Laura looked menacingly at him, and also that his apathetic expression was even more mournful than usual.  I confess that such a tame ending of the business is the most painful to me.  I am not one to provoke a quarrel, but ready to answer for my deeds; finally, I would rather the man were not so defenceless, such a small, miserable creature.  I have a nasty feeling, as if I had knocked down a cripple, and never yet felt so disgusted with myself.

We went out in the boat as usual.  I did not want Laura to think I was afraid of Davis; but there we had our first quarrel.  I confessed to her my scruples and she laughed at them.  I said to her plainly,—­

“The laughter does not become you; and remember, you may do most things, but not what is not becoming.”

There was a deep frown on the meeting eyebrows, and she replied bitterly,—­

“After what has passed between us, you may insult me even with more impunity than you could Davis.”