feminine half of the world was a confusion and a vexation to his intelligence, characterless; and one woman at last appearing decipherable, he fancied it must be owing to her possession of character, a thing prized the more in women because of his latent doubt of its existence.  Character, that was the mark he aimed at; that moved him to homage as neither sparkling wit nor incomparable beauty, nor the unusual combination, did.  To be distinguished by a woman of character (beauty and wit for jewellery), was his minor ambition in life, and if Fortune now gratified it, he owned to the flattery.  It really seemed by every test that she had the quality.  Since the day when he beheld her by the bedside of his dead uncle, and that one on the French sea-sands, and again at Copsley, ghostly white out of her wrestle with death, bleeding holy sweat of brow for her friend, the print of her features had been on him as an index of depth of character, imposing respect and admiration—­a sentiment imperilled by her consent to fly with him.  Her subsequent reserve until they met—­by an accident that the lady at any rate was not responsible for, proved the quality positively.  And the nature of her character, at first suspected, vanquished him more, by comparison, than her vivid intellect, which he originally, and still lingeringly, appreciated in condescension, as a singular accomplishment, thrilling at times, now and then assailably feminine.  But, after her consent to a proposal that caused him retrospective worldly shudders, and her composed recognition of the madness, a character capable of holding him in some awe was real majesty, and it rose to the clear heights, with her mental attributes for satellites.  His tendency to despise women was wholesomely checked by the experience to justify him in saying, Here is a worthy one!  She was health to him, as well as trusty counsel.  Furthermore, where he respected, he was a governed man, free of the common masculine craze to scale fortresses for the sake of lowering flags.  Whilst under his impression of her character, he submitted honourably to the ascendancy of a lady whose conduct suited him and whose preference flattered; whose presence was very refreshing; whose letters were a stimulant.  Her letters were really running well-waters, not a lover’s delusion of the luminous mind of his lady.  They sparkled in review and preserved their integrity under critical analysis.  The reading of them hurried him in pursuit of her from house to house during the autumn; and as she did not hint at the shadow his coming cast on her, his conscience was easy.  Regarding their future, his political anxieties were a mountainous defile, curtaining the outlook.  They met at Lockton, where he arrived after a recent consultation with his Chief, of whom, and the murmurs of the Cabinet, he spoke to Diana openly, in some dejection.

’They might see he has been breaking with his party for the last four years,’ she said.  ‘The plunge to be taken is tremendous.’