It was then that Diana seemed to be holding in her
girlish hands something very complex and rare; a nature not easily to be
understood by one so much younger. His extraordinary gifts, his
disinterested temper, his astonishing powers of work raised him in her
eyes to heroic stature. And then some very human weakness, some natural
vanity, such as wives love and foster in their husbands, but which, in
his case appeared merely forlorn and eccentric--some deep note of
loneliness--would touch her heart, and rouse her pity. He talked
generally with an amazing confidence, not untouched perhaps with
arrogance, of the political struggle before him; believed he should
carry the country with him, and impose his policy on a divided party.
Yet again and again, amid the flow of hopeful speculation, Diana became
aware, as on the first evening of Assisi, of some hidden and tragic
doubt, both of fate and of himself, some deep-rooted weariness, against
which the energy of his talk seemed to be perpetually reacting and
protesting. And the solitariness and meagreness of his life in all its
personal and domestic aspects appalled her. She saw him often as a great
man--a really great man--yet starved and shelterless--amid the storms
that were beating up around him.
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