It is a physical condition caused by contact, and kept
up by your own perverse pleasure in it--nothing more. Every one grows
out of it in time, and any one with proper self-control could conquer
it. You are wavering yourself. You see, now that you have crystallised
the feeling into words, that it is a pitiful thing after all, that the
object is not worth such an expenditure of strength--certainly not
worth the sacrifice of your power to enjoy anything else. Such
devotion to the memory of a dead husband has been thought grand by
some, although for my part I can see nothing grand in any form of self-
indulgence, whether it be the indulgence of sorrow or joy, which
narrows our sphere of usefulness, and causes us to neglect the claims
of those who love us upon our affection, and the claims of our fellow-
creatures generally upon our consideration; but in your case it is
simply----" Claudia paused for want of a word.
"You would say it is simply degrading," Ideala interposed. "I do not
feel it so. I glory in it."
"I know," said Claudia, pitilessly. "You all do." And then she got up,
and laid her hand on Ideala's shoulder.
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