nd the shroud; nor are the
passions of the flesh, nor is the animate soul, wanting to it. Other
races forfeit infancy, forfeit youth and manhood with their progression
to the wisdom age may bestow. These have each stage always alive, quick
at a word, a scent, a sound, to conjure up scenes, in spirit and in
flame. Historically, they still march with Cadwallader, with Llewellyn,
with Glendower; sing with Aneurin, Taliesin, old Llywarch: individually,
they are in the heart of the injury done them thirty years back or
thrilling to the glorious deed which strikes an empty buckler for most of
the sons of Time. An old sea rises in them, rolling no phantom billows to
break to spray against existing rocks of the shore. That is why, and even
if they have a dose of the Teuton in them, they have often to feel
themselves exiles when still in amicable community among the
preponderating Saxon English.

Add to the single differentiation enormous wealth--we convulse the
excellent Dame by terming it a chained hurricane, to launch in foul
blasts or beneficent showers, according to the moods during youth--and
the composite Lord Fleetwood comes nearer into our focus. Dame Gossip,
with her jigging to be at the butterwoman's trot, when she is not
violently interrupting, would suffer just punishment were we to digress
upon the morality of a young man's legal possession of enormous wealth as
well.

Wholly Cambrian Fleetwood was not. But he had to the full the Cambrian's
reverential esteem for high qualities. His good-bye with Henrietta, and
estimate of her, left a dusky mental, void requiring an orb of some sort
for contemplation; and an idea of the totally contrary Carinthia, the
woman he had avowedly wedded, usurped her place. Qualities were admitted.
She was thrust away because she had offended: still more because he had
offended. She bore the blame for forcing him to an examination of his
conduct at this point and that, where an ancestral savage in his
lineaments cocked a strange eye. Yet at the moment of the act of the deed
he had known himself the veritable Fleetwood. He had now to vindicate
himself by extinguishing her under the load of her unwomanliness: she was
like sun-dried linen matched beside oriental silk: she was rough, crisp,
unyielding. That was now the capital charge. Henrietta could never be
guilty of the unfeminine. Which did he prefer?

It is of all questions the one causing young men to screw wry faces when
they are ask