and fanciful, and, though capricious and
bad-tempered, could flatter and caress. At Cambridge he had introduced
the new Oxford heresy, of which Nigel Penruddock was a votary.
Waldershare prayed and fasted, and swore by Laud and Strafford. He took,
however, a more eminent degree at Paris than at his original Alma Mater,
and becoming passionately addicted to French literature, his views
respecting both Church and State became modified--at least in private.
His entrance into English society had been highly successful, and as he
had a due share of vanity, and was by no means free from worldliness,
he had enjoyed and pursued his triumphs. But his versatile nature, which
required not only constant, but novel excitement, became palled, even
with the society of duchesses. There was a monotony in the splendour of
aristocratic life which wearied him, and for some time he had persuaded
himself that the only people who understood the secret of existence were
the family under whose roof he lodged.

Waldershare was profligate, but sentimental; unprincipled, but romantic;
the child of whim, and the slave of an imagination so freakish and
deceptive, that it was always impossible to foretell his course. He was
alike capable of sacrificing all his feelings to worldly considerations
or of forfeiting the world for a visionary caprice. At present his
favourite scheme, and one to which he seemed really attached, was to
educate Imogene. Under his tuition he had persuaded himself that she
would turn out what he styled "a great woman." An age of vast change,
according to Waldershare, was impending over us. There was no male
career in which one could confide. Most men of mark would probably be
victims, but "a great woman" must always make her way. Whatever the
circumstances, she would adapt herself to them; if necessary, would
mould and fashion them. His dream was that Imogene should go forth
and conquer the world, and that in the sunset of life he should find a
refuge in some corner of her palace.

Imogene was only a child when Waldershare first became a lodger. She
used to bring his breakfast to his drawing-room and arrange his table.
He encountered her one day, and he requested her to remain, and always
preside over his meal. He fell in love with her name, and wrote her a
series of sonnets, idealising her past, panegyrising her present,
and prophetic of her future life. Imogene, who was neither shy nor
obtrusive, was calm amid all his vagar