He is not exceptional, I grant you; but, my dear, have
you ever tried the exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in a
drawing-room, and it is interesting to read about him in the Society
papers: you will find most of his good qualities there: take my
advice, don't look into him too closely. You be content with Jack,
and thank heaven he is no worse. We are not saints, we men--none of
us, and our beautiful thoughts, I fear, we write in poetry not
action. The White Knight, my dear young lady, with his pure soul,
his heroic heart, his life's devotion to a noble endeavour, does not
live down here to any great extent. They have tried it, one or two
of them, and the world--you and I: the world is made up of you and
I--has generally starved, and hooted them. There are not many of
them left now: do you think you would care to be the wife of one,
supposing one were to be found for you? Would you care to live with
him in two furnished rooms in Clerkenwell, die with him on a chair
bedstead? A century hence they will put up a statue to him, and you
may be honoured as the wife who shared with him his sufferings. Do
you think you are woman enough for that? If not, thank your stars
you have secured, for your own exclusive use, one of us
UNexceptional men, who knows no better than to admire you.
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