The night Lord Fleetwood had passed cured him of the wound Carinthia dealt, with her blunt, defensive phrase and her Welshman.  Seated on his coach-box, he turned for a look the back way leading to Esslemont, and saw rosed crag and mountain forest rather than the soft undulations of parkland pushing green meadows or brown copse up the slopes under his eye.  She had never been courted:  she deserved a siege.  She was a daughter of the racy highlands.  And she, who could say to her husband, ‘I guard my rooms,’ without sign of the stage-face of scorn or defiance or flinging of the glove, she would have to be captured by siege, it was clear.  She wore an aspect of the confident fortress, which neither challenges nor cries to treat, but commands respect.  How did she accomplish this miracle of commanding respect after such a string of somersaults before the London world?

He had to drive North-westward:  his word was pledged to one of his donkey Ixionides—­Abrane, he recollected—­to be a witness at some contemptible exhibition of the fellow’s muscular skill:  a match to punt against a Thames waterman:  this time.  Odd how it should come about that the giving of his word forced him now to drive away from the woman once causing him to curse his luck as the prisoner of his word!  However, there was to be an end of it soon—­a change; change as remarkable as Harry Monmouth’s at the touching of his crown.  Though in these days, in our jog-trot Old England, half a step on the road to greatness is the utmost we can hop; and all England jeers at the man attempting it.  He caps himself with this or that one of their titles.  For it is not the popular thing among Englishmen.  Their hero, when they have done their fighting, is the wealthy patron of Sport.  What sort of creatures are his comrades?  But he cannot have comrades unless he is on the level of them.  Yet let him be never so high above them, they charge him and point him as a piece of cannon; assenting to the flatteries they puff into him, he is their engine.  ’The idol of the hour is the mob’s wooden puppet, and the doing of the popular thing seed of no harvest,’ Gower Woodseer says, moderately well, snuffing incense of his happy delivery.  Not to be the idol, to have an aim of our own, there lies the truer pride, if we intend respect of ourselves.

The Mr. Pulpit young men have in them, until their habits have fretted him out, was directing Lord Fleetwood’s meditations upon the errors of the general man, as a cover for lateral references to his hitherto erratic career:  not much worse than a swerving from the right line, which now seemed the desirable road for him, and had previously seemed so stale, so repulsive.  He was, of course, only half-conscious of his pulpitizing; he fancied the serious vein of his thoughts attributable to a tumbled night.  Nevertheless, he had the question whether that woman—­ poor girl!—­was influencing his thoughts.  For in a moment, the