"But Florian must see it first," she said, "Of course you know that!
Florian must always be first!"
"Yes," and the Cardinal stroked her hair tenderly, while his eyes
rested on her with rather a troubled look--"Yes--of course--Florian
first. I suppose he will always be first with you, Angela?--after
God?"
"Always!" she answered softly, "Always--after God!"
And Felix Bonpre sighed--he knew not why--except that he was always
sorry for women who loved men with any very great exaltation or
devotion. That curiously tender adoration of a true woman's heart
which is so often wasted on an unworthy object, seemed to him like
lifting a cup of gold to a swine's snout. He found no actual fault
with Florian Varillo,--he was just a man as men go, with nothing
very pronounced about him, except a genius for fine mosaic-like
painting. He was not a great creator, but he was a delicate and
careful artist,--a man against whom nothing particular could be
said, except perhaps that his manner was often artificial, and that
his conduct was not always sincere. But he had a power of
fascinating the opposite sex,--and Angela had fallen a willing
victim to his candid smile, clear eyes, charming voice, and
courteous ways,--and with that strange inconsistency so common to
gifted women, she was so full of "soul" and "over-soul" herself,
that she could not imagine "soul" lacking in others;--and never
dreamed of making herself sure that it elevated the character or
temperament of the man she loved.
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