and chivalry that are required to keep such prizes precious. Upon
this point he has himself written well, as usual with fervent
optimism, but as usual (in his own phrase) with a truth sticking in
his head.

'Love,' he wrote, 'is not an intuition of the person most suitable
to us, most required by us; of the person with whom life flowers
and bears fruit. If this were so, the chances of our meeting that
person would be small indeed; our intuition would often fail; the
blindness of love would then be fatal as it is proverbial. No,
love works differently, and in its blindness lies its strength.
Man and woman, each strongly desires to be loved, each opens to the
other that heart of ideal aspirations which they have often hid
till then; each, thus knowing the ideal of the other, tries to
fulfil that ideal, each partially succeeds. The greater the love,
the greater the success; the nobler the idea of each, the more
durable, the more beautiful the effect. Meanwhile the blindness of
each to the other's defects enables the transformation to proceed
[unobserved,] so that when the veil is withdrawn (if it ever is,
and this I do not know) neither knows that any change has occurred
in the person whom they loved. Do not fear, therefore. I do not
tell you that your friend will not change, but as I am sure that
her choice cannot be that of a man with a base ideal, so I am sure
the change will be a safe and a good one. Do not fear that
anything you love will vanish, he must love it too.'

Among other introductions in London, Fleeming had presented a
letter from Mrs. Gaskell to the Alfred Austins. This was a family
certain to interest a thoughtful young man. Alfred, the youngest
and least known of the Austins, had been a beautiful golden-haired