Lionel frequently came to surprise Gwendolen in Kensington Gardens, where she rehearsed with the girls. He came in through the gates facing the Memorial Monument. By the way, the statue had been, with due respect, removed to a private niche in the In Memoriam Museum of discarded monuments, where only members of the Royal Family were admitted to see it, on applying first to the Lord Chamberlain. Already the younger members of the family showed a distinct repulsion to seeing their ancestor robed in such abnormal garments, and one of the royal infants had been seized with a fit in the arms of his nurse at the sight of it. Lionel, one lovely day in June, walked down the Long Avenue of Kensington Palace Gardens; at a distance he could perceive the groups of lissome nymphs surrounding Gwen, some scattered under the trees, others lying on the grass; and his Greek appreciation of art made him hail this pastoral scene as a great success. Those who had visited the Wallace Collection would no doubt compare the picture to a Boucher; but Lionel, who had more discrimination, thought it put him in mind of a Corot. Perhaps he was right. “Here you are, Lionel,” and Gwen walked up to him as he came near. “We are having a final rehearsal of our passion tournament. I have already told you of it. Bella will represent Love; Violet has chosen Anger; Flora begs to be Dignity, and so on. They are quite excited about it, the more so as no reading up can help them in this; they will have to work out their own ideas about the passions they wish to personify. You see, Lionel, we have had enough of external excitement, we must now look inwardly for all our pleasures. It is a step higher than historical impersonation, though we intend to make the two studies work together.—Nettie, I shall leave you in charge of them, for you are sure to give them useful hints about their parts and to develop a little more subtlety into their monodrama.—Come, Lion, my Lion, let us stroll under the trees; I have so much to say to you.” And she looked into his eyes, and caressingly held his hand close to her cheek, as they walked away. His heart was full, and he thought deeply and analysed minutely his emotions, trying to define the newly-acquired standard of morals that was slowly transforming their old rotten Society into a rational sociality. One feature of the old world had certainly disappeared since the storm—lascivious curiosity. How could morbid erotism find any place in our reformed republic? Eve-like nakedness robbed a woman of all impure suggestiveness. It was the half-clad, half-disrobed, that had made man run amok in the race for brutal enjoyment; for the goods laid out in the shop windows are not by far so alluring as what peeps behind the counter. “Gwen, how lovely you are! Your face is a crystal reflecting every beautiful emotion in your heart. Even Raphael would have despaired of fixing your expression.”