thing drawing from the antique; the slightest inaccuracy, the least deviation, destroys the harmony of the face and makes it different altogether.  I had an example in Laura.  The swelling was very slight,—­I scarcely noticed it as she obstinately turned the sound part of her face to me; but as her eyes were a little reddened, the eyelids heavier than usual, it was not the same face, perfect in its harmony and beauty.  Of course I did not let her see this, but she received my greeting half-disturbed, as if troubled with a bad conscience.  Evidently according to her principles toothache is a mortal sin.

Queer principles these, anyway!  I too have the soul of an ancient Greek, but beyond the Pagan there is something else in me.  Laura will be sometime very unhappy with her philosophy.  I can understand that one may make a religion of beauty in a general sense, but to make a religion of one’s own beauty is to prepare great unhappiness for ourselves.  What kind of religion is that which a simple toothache undermines, and a pimple on the nose shatters into ruin?

25 April.

We shall have to leave for Switzerland, for the heat is almost unbearable.  Besides the heat, there is the Sirocco, that comes now and then like a hot breath from Africa.  The sea-breezes somewhat mitigate the fierceness of this visitor from the desert, but it is none the less very disagreeable.

The Sirocco acts injuriously on Mr. Davis.  The doctor watches him closely lest he should take opium, and consequently become either very irritable or else quite stupefied.  I notice that in his greatest fits of anger he is afraid of Laura and myself.  Who knows whether a homicidal mania is not already germinating in the half-insane brain? or maybe he is afraid we are going to kill him.  Generally speaking, my relation with him is one of the darkest sides of the part I am enacting.  I say one of the darkest, because I am fully aware that there is more than one.  I should not be my own self if I did not perceive that my soul not only is stagnating, but is getting swiftly corrupted in the arms of that woman.  I cannot even express what loathing, what bitterness and pangs of conscience, it caused me at first that I should have plunged myself into the depth of sensuous raptures so soon after the death of my father.  It was not only my conscience, but also the delicacy of feelings which I undoubtedly possess, that revolted against it.  I felt this so deeply that I could not write about it.  I have grown more callous since.  I still reproach myself from time to time, and seriously reflect, but the feeling has lost its poignancy.