The marriage of true minds, so rare and so desirable, made formal marriage vulgar. There was something impossible in that astounding ceremony by which society revealed its strain of primitive savagery. How could a man and woman, sensitive to beautiful things, their hearts vibrating with the awful music of creation, prank themselves out like negroes at a fair, and march into a public building to advertise mankind of what they were about to do? The marriage of true minds did not admit impediments like these. The thorns of life pressed less roughly against his spirit as he talked with Hero. He opened his heart to her, and the bitterness within seemed to be changed and softened under the tender light of sympathy. A process of reconciliation went on without his understanding whither he was being led. And Hero found in Alistair that which her life had lacked hitherto--a motive and an aim. For in the view of life in which she had been trained there was, as Alistair told himself, no window; and Hero had missed the window. She had sought it at St. Jermyn’s, and found only the pale altar-lights of a past age guttering in their sockets. For a brave, truthful heart like hers that was not enough. In Alistair’s discontent, in his revolt against the social order that had condemned him, she discerned his latent faith in a more beautiful order, of which this triumphant one was the enemy. Her woman’s instinct told her that every man’s life depends for one-half of its happiness or its misery on the women he meets with. The man who has met the right woman for him cannot be utterly cast down. And so, as Alistair’s mother had foreseen, Hero’s love was strengthened by the idea of devotion. She had the power to help this wounded soldier, perhaps to nurse him back to strength again, and such a mission was the best thing that life had yet offered her. All this became part of their mutual consciousness as the days stretched into weeks of happy summer, and Alistair still lingered, in wayward mood, unwilling to exchange delicious expectation for dull security. For the poet waking life has nothing that can quite match the exquisite texture of his dream. And when at last he spoke he did so rather sorrowfully, like one who says farewell. Without having made any compact with each other, the lovers kept their secret for a time. Even Alistair’s mother, though she was watching and praying for the end, could not feel sure that it had been reached. But there is one eye keener than a mother’s, and that is a rival’s. The Home Secretary had read with angry jealousy the letters in which the Duchess described the growing intimacy between Alistair and Hero, and innocently indulged her hopeful anticipations. He sought and obtained the Prime Minister’s permission, and on the day that Parliament was prorogued he left England for France.