The apparition of his father to him poisoned a sluggish run of blood, and that venom in the blood distracted a head steeped in Wittenberg philosophy.

With metaphysics in one and poison in the other, with the outer world opened on him and this world stirred to confusion, he wore the semblance of madness; he was throughout sane; sick, but never with his reason dethroned.' 'Nothing but madness excuses his conduct to Ophelia!' 'Poison in the blood is a pretty good apology for infidelity to a lady.' 'No!' 'Well, to an Ophelia of fifty ?' said Alvan.
Clotilde laughed, not perfectly assured of the wherefore, but pleased to be able to laugh.

Her friends were standing at the house door, farewells were spoken, Alvan had gone.

And then she thought of the person that Ophelia of fifty might be, who would have to find a good apology for him in his dose of snake-bite, or love of a younger woman whom he termed gold-crested serpent.
He was a lover, surely a lover: he slid off to some chance bit of likeness to himself in every subject he discussed with her.
And she?
She speeded recklessly on the back of the centaur when he had returned to the state of phantom and the realities he threatened her with were no longer imminent..