"Do you really think?" says the duke, timidly, for he is very afraid of Henry Wootton,--"do you really think that to have any influence on English public life it is necessary--necessary--to keep so very straight, as regards women, I mean, you know?" "It is most necessary to _appear_ to keep very straight," replies Mr. Wootton. The two things are obviously different to the meanest capacity. The young man sighs. "And to have that--that--appearance, one must be married?" "Indisputably. Marriage is as necessary to respectability in any great position as a brougham to a doctor, or a butler to a bishop," replies the elder, smiling compassionately at the wick of his candle. He does not care a straw about the duke: he has no daughters to marry, and Mr. Wootton's social eminence is far beyond the power of dukes or princes to make or mend. "But," stammers his Grace of Queenstown, growing red, yet burning with a desire for instruction, "but don't you think a--a connection with--with any lady of one's own rank is quite safe, quite sure not to cause scandal?" Mr. Wootton balances his candlestick carefully on one finger, pauses in his walk, and looks hard at his questioner. "That would depend entirely upon the lady's temper," replies this wise monitor of youth. They are words of wisdom so profound that they sink deep into the soul of his pupil, and fill him with a consternated sadness and perplexity. The temper of Lady Dawlish is a known quantity, and the quality of it is alarming. Lady Dawlish is not young, she is good-looking, and she has debts. Lord Dawlish has indeed hitherto let her pay her debts in any way she chose, being occupied enough with paying such of his own as he cannot by any dexterity avoid; but there is no knowing what he may do any day out of caprice or ill nature, and, although he will never obtain a divorce, he may try for one, which will equally effectually convulse the duke's county and the cathedral city which is situated in its centre. His own affair with Lady Dawlish is, he firmly believes, known to no human being save themselves and their confidential servants: he little dreams that it has been the gossip of all London until London grew tired of it; he is indeed aware that everybody invited them in the kindest manner together, but he attributed this coincidence to her tact in the management of her set and choice of her own engagements. The human mind is like the ostrich: its own projects serve to it the purpose which sand plays to the ostrich: comfortably buried in them, it defies the scrutiny of mankind; wrapped in its own absorbing passions, it leaves its hansom before a lady's hall door, or leaves its coroneted handkerchief on a bachelor's couch, and never dreams that the world is looking on round the corner or through the keyhole. Human nature the moment it is interested becomes blind. Therefore the duke has put his question in good faith.