Would she ask you to tell her of all the beautiful girls you met, and whether they were charming and bright, as the boy asked me to tell him of all the interesting people I should meet, so that he, too, might take an interest in them?
A girl in his place would have been ill with envy and malice and jealousy.

Again I repeat, you don't know what a high romantic passion is." "Your argument is illogical," I cried, "if the girl is jealous, it is because she has given herself more completely: her exclusiveness is the other side of her devotion and tenderness; she wants to do everything for you, to be with you and help you in every way, and in case of illness or poverty or danger, you would find how much more she had to give than your red-breeched soldier." "That's merely a rude gibe and not an argument, Frank." "As good an argument as your 'cats,'" I replied; "your little soldier boy with his nickel-plated bicycle only makes me grin," and I grinned.
"You are unpardonable," he cried, "unpardonable, and in your soul you know that all the weight of argument is on my side.

In your soul you must know it.

What is the food of passion, Frank, but beauty, beauty alone, beauty always, and in beauty of form and vigour of life there is no comparison.

If you loved beauty as intensely as I do, you would feel as I feel.