was not, perhaps, shown in the wisest and most practical way, but it was genuine, and in the closing years of her life she probably recognised her mistakes, which, after all, were the mistakes of a generous heart. Her judgment was often wrong, but no one could deny that she was a lover of noble things, that her aims were high, though she failed to see the best means of carrying them out for the real good of her country.
When I was at Oakley Street one day, I asked what time it was, as I wanted to catch a train.
"Does anyone here," asked Lady Wilde, with one of her lofty glances, "know what time it is? We never know in this house about time."
This, it seems to me, was a key to the way in which Lady Wilde looked at things. Trifles, every day trifles, she considered quite beneath her, and yet trifles make up the sum of human life. She had a horror of the "miasma of the commonplace," her eyes were fixed on ideals, on heroes—ancient and modem—and thus she missed much that was lying near her, "close about her feet," in her fervent admiration of the dim, the distant, and the unapproachable. Her failings were the failings of a noble nature, and it is in this light that we must consider her.
