He loved like the desert-bred Eastern, as though his blood had never ceased to be steeped in its fountain Orient; loved barbarously, but with a compelling resolve to control his blood and act and be the civilized man, sober by virtue of his lady’s gracious aid.  In fact, it was the civilized man in him that had originally sought the introduction to her, with a bribe to the untameable.  The former had once led, and hoped to lead again.  Alvan was a revolutionist in imagination, the workman’s friend in rational sympathy, their leader upon mathematical calculation, but a lawyer, a reasoner in law, and therefore of necessity a cousin germane, leaning to become an ally, of the Philistines—­the founders and main supporters of his book of the Law.  And so, between the nature of his blood, and the inclination of his mind, Alvan set his heart on a damsel of the Philistines, endowed with their trained elegancies and governed by some of their precepts, but suitable to his wildness in her reputation for originality, suiting him in her cultivated liveliness and her turn for luxury.  Only the Philistines breed these choice beauties, put forth these delicate fresh young buds of girls; and only here and there among them is there an exquisite, eccentric, yet passably decorous Clotilde.  What his brother politicians never discovered in him, and the baroness partly suspected, through her interpretation of things opposing her sentiments, Clotilde uncloaks.  Catching and mastering her, his wilder animation may be appeased, but his political life is threatened with a diversion of its current, for he will be uxorious, impassioned to gratify the tastes and whims of a youthful wife; the Republican will be in danger of playing prematurely for power to seat her beside him high:  while at the same time, children, perchance, and his hardening lawyer’s head are secretly Philistinizing the demagogue, blunting the fine edge of his Radicalism, turning him into a slow-stepping Liberal, otherwise your half-Conservative in his convictions.  Can she think it much to have married that drab-coloured unit?  Power must be grasped . . . .

His watch told him that Tresten was now beholding her, or just about to.  The stillness of the heavens was remarkable.  The hour held breath.  She delayed her descent from her chamber.  He saw how she touched at her hair, more distinctly than he saw the lake before his eyes.  He watched her, and the growl of a coming roar from him rebuked her tricky deliberateness.  Deciding at last, she slips down the stairs like a waterfall, and is in the room, erect, composed—­if you do not lay ear against her bosom.  Tresten stares at her, owns she is worth a struggle.  Love does this, friend Tresten!  Love, that stamps out prejudice and bids inequality be smooth.  Tresten stares and owns she is worth heavier labours, worse than his friend has endured.  Love does it!  Love, that hallows a stranger’s claim to the flower of a proud garden:  Love has won her the freedom to suffer herself to be chosen