Hubert found himself once more without guidance, and so left Wanley behind him, journeying to an unknown land.
Hubert could not remember a time when he had not been in love.

The objects of his devotion had succeeded each other rapidly, but each in her turn was the perfect woman.

His imagination cast a halo about a beautiful head, and hastened to see in its possessor all the poetry of character which he aspired to worship.

In his loves, as in every other circumstance of life, he would have nothing of compromise; for him the world contained nothing but his passion, and existence had no other end.
Between that past and this present more intervened than Hubert could yet appreciate; but he judged the change in himself by the light in which that early love appeared to him.

Those were the restless ardours of boyhood: he could not henceforth trifle so with solemn meanings.