You are a born man of letters, a dreamer, an artist in your way.

You have to help you on entering the redoubtable lists of love neither foresight, nor a cool head, nor determination.

You are guided solely by your impressions; by them you rise or fall.

You are no more than a child." "I quite agree.

What next ?" "What next ?" He had risen, and was speaking with unusual vehemence.
"I once knew some one like you, whose first passion, rash, but deep as yours would be, broke his heart forever.