sleeve of his coat. My right hand being taken from me, I use my left.
L. You speak coldly, Aglauron; you cannot doubt that my friendship for you is the same as ever.
A. You should not reproach me for speaking coldly. You have driven me to subdue my feelings by reason, and the tone of reason seems cold because it is calm.
You say your friendship is the same. Your thoughts of your friend are the same, your feelings towards him are not. Your feelings flow now in other channels.
L. Am I to blame for that?
A. Surely not. No one is to blame; if either were so, it would be I, for not possessing more varied powers to satisfy the variations and expansions of your nature.
L. But have I not seemed heartless to you at times?
A. In the moment, perhaps, but quiet thought always showed me the difference between heartlessness and the want of a deep heart.
Nor do I think this will eventually be denied you. You are generous, you love truth. Time will make you less restless, because less bent upon yourself, will give depth and steadfastness to that glowing heart. Tenderness will then come of itself. You will take upon you the bonds of friendship less easily and knit them firmer.
L. And you will then receive me?
A. I or some other; it matters not.
L. Ah! you have become indifferent to me.
A. What would you have? That gentle trust, which seems to itself immortal, cannot be given twice. What is sweet and flower-like in the mind is very timid, and can only be tempted out by the wooing breeze and infinite promise of spring. Those flowers, once touched by a cold wind, will not revive again.
L. But their germs lie in the earth.
