'If I thought that you retained for that wretch one particle of the love of which he was never worthy, I would die before I would distract you by telling you what I feel. No! were your husband the master of your heart, I might perhaps love you; but you should never know it.'
'My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then, that if a husband be not master of his wife's heart, he has not right to her fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be true. Is that your doctrine on this matter, as a minister of the Church of England?'
Mr Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the pollution with which he felt that he was defiling his soul. He strove to tear himself away from the noxious siren that had bewitched him. He had looked for rapturous joy in loving this lovely creature, and he already found that he met with little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He had come across the fruits of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to the eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the apple to his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his teeth. Yet he could not tear himself away. He knew, he could not but know, that weakness of his religion. But she half permitted his adoration, and that half permission added such fuel to his fire that all the fountain of piety could not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated, and revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt that should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as he stood there for a moment, silent before her, that if he desired to quell her proud spirit, he should do so by being prouder even than herself; that if he wished to have her at his feet suppliant for his love it behoved him to conquer her by indifference. All this passed through his mind. As far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he knew, how a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring his tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has dead knowledge with experience in any of the transactions between man and man? What possible between man and woman? Mr Slope loved furiously, insanely, and truly; but he had never played the game of love. The signora did not love at all, but she was up to every move on the board. It was Philidor pitched against a school-boy.
And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear it.
'Sacrifice the world for love!' said she, in answer to some renewed rapid declaration of his passion, 'how often has the same thing been said, and how invariably with the same falsehood!'
'Falsehood,' said he. 'Do you say that I am false to you? Do you say that my love is not real?'