Kingston, for his part, found that marriage had not dissipated or broken the spiritual barrier between himself and Gundred. Her citadel was still locked against him, inexpugnable, not to be captured by any guile or violence. There were still great heavy gaps in their conversation, great tracts of desert country across which their souls were incapable of taking hands. The calm beatitude that Kingston had foreseen began to reveal itself a state of something not unlike sterility, diversified with moments of irritation when he skirmished round the stone walls of Gundred’s guarded mind, and only succeeded in bruising himself, no matter how furiously he attacked. She could not be led, forced, cajoled, kissed, harried, or bullied into understanding. A sense of hopelessness sometimes seized him before the sweet indomitable obstinacy of her mind. It was at once so hard that no blow could make an impression, and so soft that no blow could strike home. Unlike Anne Elliot in all else, her manners--of mind and body alike--‘were as consciously right as they were invariably gentle.’ That invariable, gentle consciousness of rectitude was cruelly trying to the restless, questioning, agile temper of her husband. He longed to stir up its provoking serenity, to stick pins into its lethargic mass. But nothing, no effort of his, could move it, shake it, upset that tranquil self-complacence. It was like grappling with a phantom in a nightmare. Neither men nor angels could ever turn Gundred Darnley from an opinion or a habit. She knew that her outer and her inner woman alike were both thoroughly, faultlessly dressed, in the best-fitting, most suitable garments, and no jot or tittle would she alter of her physical or mental trimmings. Neat, not gaudy, was her equipment, and, secure of perfection, she could not conceive the possibility of any improvement.