*To will the same thing and not to will the same thing, that at length
is firm friendship.

"/Carlos./ That letter.
/Princess Eboli./ Oh, I shall die. Return it instantly."
SCHILLER: /Don Carlos/.

IT seemed as if the compact Maltravers and Lady Florence had entered
into removed whatever embarrassment and reserve had previously existed.
They now conversed with an ease and freedom not common in persons of
different sexes before they have passed their grand climacteric.
Ernest, in ordinary life, like most men of warm emotions and strong
imagination, if not taciturn, was at least guarded. It was as if a
weight were taken from his breast, when he found one person who could
understand him best when he was most candid. His eloquence--his
poetry--his intense and concentrated enthusiasm found a voice. He could
talk to an individual as he would have written to the public--a rare
happiness to the men of books.

Florence seemed to recover her health and spirits as by a miracle; yet
she was more gentle, more subdued, than of old--there was less effort to
shine, less indifference whether she shocked. Persons who had not met
her before, wondered why she was dreaded in society. But at times a
great natural irritability of temper--a quick suspicion of the motives
of those around her--an imperious and obstinate vehemence of will, were
visible to Maltravers, and served, perhaps, to keep him heart-whole. He
regarded her through the eyes of the intellect, not those of the
passions--he thought not of her as a woman--her very talents, her very
grandeur of idea and power of purpose, while they delighted him in
conversation, diverted his imagination from dwelling on her beauty. He