11 p.m.—­I have made the acquaintance of M. de la Feste; and I seem to be another woman from the effect of it.  I cannot describe why this should be so, but conversation with him seems to expand the view, and open the heart, and raise one as upon stilts to wider prospects.  He has a good intellectual forehead, perfect eyebrows, dark hair and eyes, an animated manner, and a persuasive voice.  His voice is soft in quality—­too soft for a man, perhaps; and yet on second thoughts I would not have it less so.  We have been talking of his art:  I had no notion that art demanded such sacrifices or such tender devotion; or that there were two roads for choice within its precincts, the road of vulgar money-making, and the road of high aims and consequent inappreciation for many long years by the public.  That he has adopted the latter need not be said to those who understand him.  It is a blessing for Caroline that she has been chosen by such a man, and she ought not to lament at postponements and delays, since they have arisen unavoidably.  Whether he finds hers a sufficiently rich nature, intellectually and emotionally, for his own, I know not, but he seems occasionally to be disappointed at her simple views of things.  Does he really feel such love for her at this moment as he no doubt believes himself to be feeling, and as he no doubt hopes to feel for the remainder of his life towards her?

It was a curious thing he told me when we were left for a few minutes alone; that Caroline had alluded so slightly to me in her conversation and letters that he had not realized my presence in the house here at all.  But, of course, it was only natural that she should write and talk most about herself.  I suppose it was on account of the fact of his being taken in some measure unawares, that I caught him on two or three occasions regarding me fixedly in a way that disquieted me somewhat, having been lately in so little society; till my glance aroused him from his reverie, and he looked elsewhere in some confusion.  It was fortunate that he did so, and thus failed to notice my own.  It shows that he, too, is not particularly a society person.

May 10.—­Have had another interesting conversation with M. de la Feste on schools of landscape painting in the drawing-room after dinner this evening—­my father having fallen asleep, and left nobody but Caroline and myself for Charles to talk to.  I did not mean to say so much to him, and had taken a volume of Modern Painters from the bookcase to occupy myself with, while leaving the two lovers to themselves; but he would include me in his audience, and I was obliged to lay the book aside.  However, I insisted on keeping Caroline in the conversation, though her views on pictorial art were only too charmingly crude and primitive.