love, hating for love, and last of all killing somebody for love."
"It would be a marvel for you to agree with me in anything I say to night."
"Walter has not yet entered those mysterious portals," said Mr. Claremont in an undertone to his wife, but sufficient to attract Walter's attention.
"What was that you said, father," demanded he, rising from his seat.
"Something to your credit, though not essential for you to know," replied his father.
"Rosa, won't you tell me," continued he in a pleading voice, coaxingly placing his hand in hers.
"Don't you wish you knew?"
"No, I'll find out by my own knowledge."
"That's what you will if you live long enough; you've gone back to your sum in high dudgeon. The next we shall know it will be done at short notice."
"Walter, I admire your good sense in that remark about the theatre. One of the most pernicious influences resulting from it is the low, sensual character in which it presents the holiest emotion of this mortal life, trifling with that sacred instinct which from its divine and spiritual nature should claim exemption from the vulgar affinity with base-born passions there so invariably and notoriously represented."
"Yet, father," said Rosalind, "such is a true picture of actual life, if history be reliable. It is full of machinations and plots of that description, and Shakspeare's genius, fertile as it was, probably did not exceed the reality. Nothing takes like his plays."
