Not that there was much to confide. She was the daughter of a solicitor who had left nothing but debts. Her mother was dead, and she was absolutely alone in the world. Her only relations were some very distant cousins who were so poor that it had been impossible for them to help her in any way. “I was very lucky,” she said, gratefully, “to get such a good situation, and it came about in the quaintest way. Lady Gascoyne had seen all sorts of people with diplomas and recommendations which I had not got, and she saw me sitting in the waiting-room as she passed out. I don’t think the agent quite liked her engaging me, but Lady Gascoyne insisted that I was just the person she wanted, and here I am.” She smiled contentedly. She evidently considered herself an extremely fortunate young woman. She attracted me enormously without in any way usurping the place of the two women who already counted for so much in my life. All too soon I was obliged to leave her and hurry back to Lord Gascoyne, whom I found waiting for me. It was the first opportunity I had had of really impressing him, and I did not waste my time. I took such an absorbing interest in everything about me that I fancy he was surprised to find himself talking so much and so intimately. I was perfectly ready to enter into the subjects which interested him most. He was evidently deeply imbued with a belief in the divine right of aristocracy, and with no superficial sense of its responsibilities. He was above all things a serious man, with little sense of humour. I imagined that Lady Gascoyne must find him dull, but his qualities were essentially those which command women’s respect and hold them with a certain kind of fear. As is the case with his class—a class which the popular organs are fond of describing as irresponsible and brainless—his knowledge and grasp of life were very extensive. His individual sympathies may not have been very great, but he had a general sense of justice which marked him out as an administrator, from many who were perhaps much his intellectual superiors. What he knew was of use to him. I was surprised at my own capacity for conciliating him. I accompanied him with ease into the region of politics. He was evidently impressed, and it was satisfactory to feel him gradually treating me with less and less formality. “Your race gave us one of our greatest statesmen,” he said, “for I do not believe that anyone has understood real statesmanship better than Disraeli.” “Some people seem to think he was insincere,” I replied, “but I don’t believe it. His cynicism was simply the complement of a mind with a singularly large outlook.” So subtle an appreciation impressed the man whose own nature was all in a straight line. The curves of a less direct character appealed to him as insight.