things, previously mysteries, with surprising clearness. As, for example,
that passion was part of her nature; therefore her very life, lying
tranced. She certainly could not love without passion such an
abandonment was the sole justification of love in a woman standing where
she stood. And now for the first time she saw her exact position before
the world; and she saw some way into her lord: saw that he nursed a
wound, extracted balm from anything enabling him to show the world how he
despised it, and undesigningly immolated her for the petty gratification.

It could not, in consequence, be the truth. To bear what she had borne
she must be a passionless woman; and she was glad of her present safety
in thinking it. Once it was absolutely true. She swam away to the
golden-circled Island of Once; landed, and dwelt there solitarily and
blissfully, looking forward to Sunday's walk round the park, looking back
on it. Proudly she could tell herself that her dreams of the Prince of
the island had not been illusions as far as he was concerned; for he had
a great soul. He did not aim at a tawdry glory. He was a loss to our
army--no loss to his country or the world. A woman might clasp her
feeling of pride in having foreseen distinction for him; and a little,
too, in distinguishing now the true individual distinction from the
feathered uniform vulgar. Where the girl's dreams had proved illusions,
she beheld in a title and luxuries, in a loveless marriage.

That was perilous ground. Still it taught her to see that the
substantial is the dust; and passion not being active, she could reflect.
After a series of penetrative flashes, flattering to her intelligence the
more startling they were, reflection was exhausted. She sank on her
nature's desire to join or witness agonistic incidents, shocks,
wrestlings, the adventures which are brilliant air to sanguine energies.
Imagination shot tap, and whirled the circle of a succession of them; and