to feel with such a constant intimacy the impact of her quick affection, her radiant vitality—­that was more; most of all, perhaps, was it good to linger vaguely in humorous contemplation, in idle apostrophe, to talk disconnectedly, to make a little joke about an apple or a furbelow, to dream.  The springs of his sensibility, hidden deep within him, were overflowing.  Often, as he bent over her hand and kissed it, he found himself in tears.

Upon Victoria, with all her impermeability, it was inevitable that such a companionship should have produced, eventually, an effect.  She was no longer the simple schoolgirl of two years since.  The change was visible even in her public demeanour.  Her expression, once “ingenuous and serene,” now appeared to a shrewd observer to be “bold and discontented.”  She had learnt something of the pleasures of power and the pains of it; but that was not all.  Lord Melbourne with his gentle instruction had sought to lead her into the paths of wisdom and moderation, but the whole unconscious movement of his character had swayed her in a very different direction.  The hard clear pebble, subjected for so long and so constantly to that encircling and insidious fluidity, had suffered a curious corrosion; it seemed to be actually growing a little soft and a little clouded.  Humanity and fallibility are infectious things; was it possible that Lehzen’s prim pupil had caught them?  That she was beginning to listen to siren voices?  That the secret impulses of self-expression, of self-indulgence even, were mastering her life?  For a moment the child of a new age looked back, and wavered towards the eighteenth century.  It was the most critical moment of her career.  Had those influences lasted, the development of her character, the history of her life, would have been completely changed.

And why should they not last?  She, for one, was very anxious that they should.  Let them last for ever!  She was surrounded by Whigs, she was free to do whatever she wanted, she had Lord M.; she could not believe that she could ever be happier.  Any change would be for the worse; and the worst change of all... no, she would not hear of it; it would be quite intolerable, it would upset everything, if she were to marry.  And yet everyone seemed to want her to—­the general public, the Ministers, her Saxe-Coburg relations—­it was always the same story.  Of course, she knew very well that there were excellent reasons for it.  For one thing, if she remained childless, and were to die, her uncle Cumberland, who was now the King of Hanover, would succeed to the Throne of England.  That, no doubt, would be a most unpleasant event; and she entirely sympathised with everybody who wished to avoid it.  But there was no hurry; naturally, she would marry in the end—­but not just yet—­not for three or four years.  What was tiresome was that her uncle Leopold had apparently determined, not only that she ought to marry, but that her cousin Albert ought to be her husband.  That