Feelings and memories of agony, which a word, a line, would rouse in him afresh, had brought him to avoid it with an aversion seemingly deep-rooted as an instinct, and mounting even to loathing; and when at length he cast from him the semi-beliefs of his education, he persuaded himself that he disliked it for its falsehood.

He read his philosophy by the troubled light of wrong and suffering, and that is not the light of the morning, but of a burning house.

Of all poems, naturally enough, he then disliked _In Memoriam_ the most; and now it made him almost angry that Juliet Meredith should like so much what he so much disliked.

Not that he would have a lady indifferent to poetry.

That would argue a lack of poetry in herself, and such a lady would be like a scentless rose.