poised, the more evenly balanced, the more perceptive.  His eyes were not blurred or dimmed by any stress of emotion, his mind worked in a cool quiet, and his forward tread had leisurely decision and grace.  He had sunk one part of himself far below the level of activity or sensation, while new resolves, new powers of mind, new designs were set in motion to make his career a real and striking success.  He had the most friendly ear and the full confidence of the Prime Minister, who was also Foreign Secretary—­he had got that far; and now, if one of his great international schemes could but be completed, an ambassadorship would be his reward, and one of first-class importance.  The three years had done much for him in a worldly way, wonderfully much.

As he looked at the woman who had shaken his life to the centre—­not by her rejection of him, but by the fashion of it, the utter selfishness and cold-blooded calculation of it, he knew that love’s fires were out, and that he could meet her without the agitation of a single nerve.  He despised her, but he could make allowance for her.  He knew the strain that was in her, got from her brilliant and rather plangent grandfather.  He knew the temptation of a vast fortune, the power that it would bring—­and the notoriety, too, again an inheritance from her grandfather.  He was not without magnanimity, and he could the more easily exercise it because his pulses of emotion were still.

She was by nature the most brilliantly endowed woman he had ever met, the most naturally perceptive and artistic, albeit there was a touch of gorgeousness to the inherent artistry which time, training and experience would have chastened.  Would have chastened?  Was it not, then, chastened?  Looking at her now, he knew that it was not.  It was still there, he felt; but how much else was also there—­of charm, of elusiveness, of wit, of mental adroitness, of joyous eagerness to discover a new thought or a new thing!  She was a creature of rare splendour, variety and vanity.

Why should he deny himself the pleasure of her society?  His intellectual side would always be stimulated by her, she would always “incite him to mental riot,” as she had often said.  Time had flown, love had flown, and passion was dead; but friendship stayed.  Yes, friendship stayed—­in spite of all.  Her conduct had made him blush for her, had covered him with shame, but she was a woman, and therefore weak—­he had come to that now.  She was on a lower plateau of honour, and therefore she must be—­not forgiven—­that was too banal; but she must be accepted as she was.  And, after all, there could be no more deception; for opportunity and occasion no longer existed.  He would go and speak to her now.