I do not say, or wish understood, that he did not love her--with such love as lay in the immediate power of his development; but, being a sort of a poet, such as a man may be who loves the form of beauty, but not the indwelling power of it, that is, the truth, he _made_ love to her--fashioned forms of love, and offered them to her; and she accepted them, and found the words of them very dear and very lovely.

For neither had she got far enough, with all Godfrey's endeavors for her development, to love aright the ring of the true gold, and therefore was not able to distinguish the dull sound of the gilt brass Tom offered her.

Poor fellow! it was all he had.

But compassion itself can hardly urge that as a reason for accepting it for genuine.

What rubbish most girls will take for poetry, and with it heap up impassably their door to the garden of delights! what French polish they will take for refinement! what merest French gallantry for love! what French sentiment for passion! what commonest passion they will take for devotion!--passion that has little to do with their beauty even, still less with the individuality of it, and nothing at all with their loveliness! In justice to Tom, I must add, however, that he also took not a little rubbish for poetry, much sentiment for pathos, and all passion for love.