She had
had love; it had been glorious, it was still glorious, but her love-
making became now at times almost perfunctory in the contemplation
of these approaching delights and splendours and excitements.
She knew, indeed, that ideas were at work in Benham's head; but she
was a realist. She did not see why ideas should stand in the way of
a career. Ideas are a brightness, the good looks of the mind. One
talks ideas, but THE THING THAT IS, IS THE THING THAT IS. And
though she believed that Benham had a certain strength of character
of his own, she had that sort of confidence in his love for her and
in the power of her endearments that has in it the assurance of a
faint contempt. She had mingled pride and sense in the glorious
realization of the power over him that her wit and beauty gave her.
She had held him faint with her divinity, intoxicated with the pride
of her complete possession, and she did not dream that the moment
when he should see clearly that she could deliberately use these
ultimate delights to rule and influence him, would be the end of
their splendour and her power.
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