His agonies now were very great.  Those last lacerations of conscience were terrific.  Then, after nights spent striding, a sudden calm fell upon him.  At length he could feel what he had always seen, that there could not be two duties for a man, that no man can serve two masters, that a man’s one clear duty is to be in the possession of his soul and live the life it approves:  in other and shorter words, instead of leading Priscilla, Priscilla was now leading him.

She did more than lead him; she drove him.  The soul he had so carefully tended and helped to grow was now grown stronger than his own; for there was added to its natural strength the tremendous daring of absolute inexperience.  What can be more inexperienced than a carefully guarded young princess?  Priscilla’s ignorance of the outside world was pathetic.  He groaned over her plans—­for it was she who planned and he who listened—­and yet he loved them.  She was a divine woman, he said to himself; the sweetest and noblest, he was certain, that the world would ever see.

Her plans were these: 

First, that having had twenty-one years of life at the top of the social ladder she was now going to get down and spend the next twenty-one at the bottom of it. (Here she gave her reasons, and I will not stop to describe Fritzing’s writhings as his own past teachings grinned at him through every word she said.)

Secondly, that the only way to get to the bottom being to run away from Kunitz, she was going to run.

Thirdly, that the best and nicest place for living at the bottom would be England. (Here she explained her conviction that beautiful things grow quite naturally round the bottom of ladders that cannot easily reach the top; flowers of self-sacrifice and love, of temperance, charity, godliness—­delicate things, with roots that find their nourishment in common soil.  You could not, said Priscilla, expect soil at the top of ladders, could you?  And as she felt that she too had roots full of potentialities, she must take them down to where their natural sustenance lay waiting.)

Fourthly, they were to live somewhere in the country in England, in the humblest way.

Fifthly, she was to be his daughter.

“Daughter?” cried Fritzing, bounding in his chair.  “Your Grand Ducal Highness forgets I have friends in England, every one of whom is aware that I never had a wife.”

“Niece, then,” said Priscilla.

He gazed at her in silence, trying to imagine her his niece.  He had two sisters, and they had stopped exactly at the point they were at when they helped him, barefoot, to watch Westphalian pigs.  I do not mean that they had not ultimately left the little farm, gone into stockings, and married.  It is their minds I am thinking of, and these had never budged.  They were like their father, a doomed dullard; while Fritzing’s mother, whom he resembled, had been a rather extraordinary woman in a rough and barbarous way.  He found himself wholly unable to imagine either of his sisters the mother of this exquisite young lady.