Tell her that Zenobia will not be long her friend.
Say that Hollingsworth's heart is on fire with his own purpose, but
icy for all human affection; and that, if she has given him her love,
it is like casting a flower into a sepulchre. And say that if any
mortal really cares for her, it is myself; and not even I for her
realities,--poor little seamstress, as Zenobia rightly called her!--
but for the fancy-work with which I have idly decked her out!"
The pleasant scent of the wood, evolved by the hot sun, stole up to
my nostrils, as if I had been an idol in its niche. Many trees
mingled their fragrance into a thousand-fold odor. Possibly there
was a sensual influence in the broad light of noon that lay beneath
me. It may have been the cause, in part, that I suddenly found
myself possessed by a mood of disbelief in moral beauty or heroism,
and a conviction of the folly of attempting to benefit the world.
Our especial scheme of reform, which, from my observatory, I could
take in with the bodily eye, looked so ridiculous that it was
impossible not to laugh aloud.
"But the joke is a little too heavy," thought I. "If I were wise, I
should get out of the scrape with all diligence, and then laugh at my
companions for remaining in it."
While thus musing, I heard with perfect distinctness, somewhere in
the wood beneath, the peculiar laugh which I have described as one of
the disagreeable characteristics of Professor Westervelt. It brought
my thoughts back to our recent interview.
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