So kind and soft is love, so tender and sweet-spoken, that
you would think he would not so much as ruffle the leaf of a rose, nor
breathe too sharply on a violet, lest he should hurt the flower-soul
within; and if you treat him hospitably he is kind to the last, so that
when he is gone there is still a sweet savor of him left. But if you would
drive him roughly away with scorn and rude language, he will stand at your
door and will not leave you. Then his wings drop from him, and he grows
strong and fierce, and deadly and beautiful, as the fallen archangel of
heaven, crying aloud bitter things to you by day and night; till at the
last he will break down bolt and bar and panel, and enter your chamber,
and drag you out with him to your death in the wild darkness.
But Josephine blushed deeply there in the old-fashioned drawing-room at
midnight, and as she turned away she wondered at herself, for she could
not believe nor understand what was happening.
Poor girl! She had talked of love so often as an abstract thing, she had
seen so many love-makings of others, and so many men had tried to make
love to her in her short brilliant life, and she had always thought it
could not come near her, because, of course, she really loved Ronald.
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