She has a beautiful soul, and it has had no chance. I propose
to give it one, and I am not afraid of the result.'
Tregellan threw away the stump of his cigar into the darkling street, with
a little gesture of discouragement, of lassitude.
'She has had the chance to become what she is, a perfect thing.'
'My dear fellow,' exclaimed his friend, 'I could not have said more
myself.'
The other continued, ignoring his interruption.
'She has had great luck. She has been brought up by an old eccentric, on
the English system of growing up as she liked. And no harm has come of it,
at least until it gave you the occasion of making love to her.'
'You are candid, Tregellan!'
'Let her go, Sebastian, let her go,' he continued, with increasing gravity.
'Consider what a transplantation; from this world of Ploumariel where
everything is fixed for her by that venerable old _Cure_, where life is
so easy, so ordered, to yours, ours; a world without definitions, where
everything is an open question.'
'Exactly,' said the artist, 'why should she be so limited? I would give her
scope, ideas. I can't see that I am wrong.'
'She will not accept them, your ideas. They will trouble her, terrify her;
in the end, divide you.
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