Again:  the Countess was a born general.  With her star above, with certain advantages secured, with battalions of lies disciplined and zealous, and with one clear prize in view, besides other undeveloped benefits dimly shadowing forth, the Countess threw herself headlong into the enemy’s country.

But, that you may not think too highly of this lady, I must add that the trivial reason was the exciting cause—­as in many great enterprises.  This was nothing more than the simple desire to be located, if but for a day or two, on the footing of her present rank, in the English country-house of an offshoot of our aristocracy.  She who had moved in the first society of a foreign capital—­who had married a Count, a minister of his sovereign, had enjoyed delicious high-bred badinage with refulgent ambassadors, could boast the friendship of duchesses, and had been the amiable receptacle of their pardonable follies; she who, moreover, heartily despised things English:—­this lady experienced thrills of proud pleasure at the prospect of being welcomed at a third-rate English mansion.  But then, that mansion was Beckley Court.  We return to our first ambitions, as to our first loves not that they are dearer to us,—­quit that delusion:  our ripened loves and mature ambitions are probably closest to our hearts, as they deserve to be—­but we return to them because our youth has a hold on us which it asserts whenever a disappointment knocks us down.  Our old loves (with the bad natures I know in them) are always lurking to avenge themselves on the new by tempting us to a little retrograde infidelity.  A schoolgirl in Fallow field, the tailor’s daughter, had sighed for the bliss of Beckley Court.  Beckley Court was her Elysium ere the ardent feminine brain conceived a loftier summit.  Fallen from that attained eminence, she sighed anew for Beckley Court.  Nor was this mere spiritual longing; it had its material side.  At Beckley Court she could feel her foreign rank.  Moving with our nobility as an equal, she could feel that the short dazzling glitter of her career was not illusory, and had left her something solid; not coin of the realm exactly, but yet gold.  She could not feel this in the Cogglesby saloons, among pitiable bourgeoises—­middle-class people daily soiled by the touch of tradesmen.  They dragged her down.  Their very homage was a mockery.

Let the Countess have due credit for still allowing Evan to visit Beckley Court to follow up his chance.  If Demogorgon betrayed her there, the Count was her protector:  a woman rises to her husband.  But a man is what he is, and must stand upon that.  She was positive Evan had committed himself in some manner.  As it did not suit her to think so, she at once encouraged an imaginary conversation, in which she took the argument that it was quite impossible Evan could have been so mad, and others instanced his youth, his wrongheaded perversity, his ungenerous disregard for his devoted sister, and his known weakness:  she replying, that undoubtedly they were right so far:  but that he could not have said he himself was that horrible thing, because he was nothing of the sort:  which faith in Evan’s stedfast adherence to facts, ultimately silenced the phantom opposition, and gained the day.