He looked fixedly at her. Could this be Lady Dora? An idea crossed his mind--she was one of two things, either luring him on to enchain, then crush him beneath the weight of those manacles; or else the arrival of Lord Randolph, the necessity of deciding her fate, the scene around, their isolation from all, and freedom from restraint, had combined to make her cast off the wearying mantle of her self-imposed pride, which had cloaked her in a corslet of impervious steel: it was a battle between them well _finessed_; both were on their guard. "I will prove, before I advance," he thought, "and woe to the day she places herself in my hands. I will be unsparing, as she was merciless and cold-hearted. Right!" he said aloud, in answer to her last sentence. "I would be an eagle, free and soaring, mated with one wild and ambitious as myself--towering and untameable. Such a one I could choose--to such a one yield love for love, and, like the fabled bird, consume with the ardour of my affections, and rise again from my ashes to live again--love again!" His warmth aroused her to a sense of her danger. "We are in truth playing our parts in the madness around us!" she said, in a voice which struggled to be calm. "True; but we play our parts _con amore_, admit that; and the better, that we know two things--one is, _you cannot_ love--the other, _I_ dare not." "I should have thought you a man to dare all things!" "You give me credit for more than I deserve. There are many things I would not encounter willingly--one is----" "What?" Despite his self-command, a cloud crossed his brow. "I will tell you some day," he hastily answered; "but if I met this spectre, _even_ as spectre, I would fly it." "I would fly nothing; _there_ is the difference between us." "What if your wayward heart--for all hearts are so--fixed itself upon some unworthy object, would you not fly them?" "No; were I to do so, I should never conquer; it would pursue me ever--flight would be vain. I would live near it, seek it, familiarize myself with it, till the inconstant heart grew tired of its bauble, then I----" she paused. "Would dash it to earth, and trample on it, reckless of its fragile nature. Believe me, vases of potter's clay are as fragile as the finest Sèvres ever produced by fire." "Perhaps so; but such should rest satisfied with draughts from water spring, nor seek to hold the ruby wine which a monarch sips; only degradation could ensue." She was not actually thinking of him when she said this: it was only the overflowing of her cup of pride, which coloured her speech; but he remembered every word, and it strengthened his determination, if possible, to humble this spirit to the dust.