parity of their years, it would have appeared ridiculous. That he
sincerely admired her, was fully content with her, there could be no
doubt. I am even inclined to think he was fonder of her than, divining
her feelings towards himself, he cared to show. Knowledge of the world
must have told him that men of fifty find it easier to be the lovers of
women young enough to be their daughters, than girls find it to desire
the affection of men old enough to be their fathers; and he was not the
man to allow impulse to lead him into absurdity.

From my own peculiar point of view he appeared the ideal prince consort.
It was difficult for me to imagine my queen in love with any mere man.
This was one beside whom she could live, losing in my eyes nothing of
her dignity. My feelings for her he guessed at our first interview. Most
men in his position would have been amused, and many would have shown
it. For what reason I cannot say, but with a tact and courtesy that left
me only complimented, he drew from me, before I had met him half-a-dozen
times, more frank confession than a month previously I should have
dreamt of my yielding to anything than my own pillow. He laid his hand
upon my shoulder.

"I wonder if you know, my friend, how wise you are," he said. "We all of
us at your age love an image of our own carving. Ah, if only we could be
content to worship the white, changeless statute! But we are fools. We
pray the gods to give her life, and under our hot kisses she becomes a
woman. I also loved when I was your age, Paul. Your countrymen, they
are so practical, they know only one kind of love. It is business-like,
rich--how puts it your poet? 'rich in saving common sense.' But there
are many kinds, you understand that, my friend. You are wise, do not
confuse them. She was a child of the mountains. I used to walk three
leagues to Mass each day to worship her. Had I been wise--had I so left
it, the memory of her would have coloured all my life with glory. But
I was a fool, my friend; I turned her into a woman. Ah!"--he made a
gesture of disgust--"such a fat, ugly woman, Paul, I turned her into. I
had much difficulty in getting rid of her. We should never touch things
in life that are beautiful; we have such clumsy hands, we spoil whatever
we touch."

Hal did not return to England till the end of the year, by which time
the Count and Countess Huescar--though I had her permission still to
call her Barbara, I never availed myself of