unerring brains, more openly than on her
night of debate at The Crossways. The next moment she was off in vapour,
meditating grandly on her independence of her sex and the passions. Love!
she did not know it, she was not acquainted with either the criminal or
the domestic God, and persuaded herself that she never could be. She was
a Diana of coldness, preferring friendship; she could be the friend of
men. There was another who could be the friend of women. Her heart leapt
to Redworth. Conjuring up his clear trusty face, at their grasp of hands
when parting, she thought of her visions of her future about the period
of the Dublin Ball, and acknowledged, despite the erratic step to
wedlock, a gain in having met and proved so true a friend. His face,
figure, character, lightest look, lightest word, all were loyal signs of
a man of honour, cold as she; he was the man to whom she could have
opened her heart for inspection. Rejoicing in her independence of an
emotional sex, the impulsive woman burned with a regret that at their
parting she had not broken down conventional barriers and given her cheek
to his lips in the antiinsular fashion with a brotherly friend. And why
not when both were cold? Spirit to spirit, she did, delightfully
refreshed by her capacity to do so without a throb. He had held her hands
and looked into her eyes half a minute, like a dear comrade; as little
arousing her instincts of defensiveness as the clearing heavens; and
sisterly love for it was his due, a sister's kiss. He needed a sister,
and should have one in her. Emma's recollected talk of 'Tom Redworth'
painted him from head to foot, brought the living man over the waters to
the deck of the yacht. A stout champion in the person of Tom Redworth was
left on British land; but for some reason past analysis, intermixed, that
is, among a swarm of sensations, Diana named her champion to herself with
the formal prefix: perhaps because she knew a man's Christian name to be
dangerous handling. They differed besides frequently in opinion, when the
habit of thinking of him as Mr. Redworth would be best. Women are bound
to such small observances, and especially the beautiful of the
sisterhood, whom the world soon warns that they carry explosives and must
particularly guard against the ignition of petty sparks. She was less
indiscreet in her thoughts than in her acts, as is the way with the
reflective daughter of impulse; though she had fine mental distinctions: