“I heard the curator of Walsingham House say last evening that he meant to suggest a new departure in monument erection. Instead of paying a tribute to the man who, as a soldier, a poet, or a statesman, had but done his duty during his short visit to this planet, he advised that monuments should be raised to abstract principles, and enjoined the Committee to start by replacing the equestrian Duke of Wellington with the detruncated statue of Victory in the Elgin Marbles collection. Gwen, we are at your door, and we must part. When shall I see you again, dearest?” “To-morrow in the Kensington Gardens, under the shady trees, we shall be able to talk of all the problems we must solve together.” “Good-night, my Una. How lovely you are, thus caressed by the soft rays of the moon. Have I never gazed into a woman’s face before, that I seem to see your eyes for the first time? I have now discovered the secret of inward beauty, and wherever you are, however surrounded you may be, I shall know you, for I have seen your soul. My whole life will be too short in which to express my rapturous admiration. Forgive me for the past years of blindness.” “Lion, it is I who have to beg your forgiveness. I never knew you—I never knew my own self. Was it our fault after all? It had never been our lot to meet as two free citizens of the Universe; but, like two miserable slaves of Society, we were trained to trick each other, and to play a blasphemous parody of love, while malice all the time was master of our fettered beings.” The door of No. 110 opened and closed on the vision of purity. Lionel walked up Park Lane and soon reached his home; he entered the library, and once more looked up at his father’s portrait. Was it fancy? But he thought he saw the face smile superciliously, and heard these cold words fall from the thin lips: “My poor fellow, beware of sentimentality. As I told you, I preferred being killed to being bored.” CHAPTER VIII