Fleeming chanced if you will (and
indeed all these opportunities are as 'random as blind man's buff')
upon a wife who was worthy of him; but he had the wit to know it,
the courage to wait and labour for his prize, and the tenderness
and chivalry that are required to keep such prizes precious. Upon
this point he has himself written well, as usual with fervent
optimism, but as usual (in his own phrase) with a truth sticking in
his head.
'Love,' he wrote, 'is not an intuition of the person most suitable
to us, most required by us; of the person with whom life flowers
and bears fruit. If this were so, the chances of our meeting that
person would be small indeed; our intuition would often fail; the
blindness of love would then be fatal as it is proverbial. No,
love works differently, and in its blindness lies its strength.
Man and woman, each strongly desires to be loved, each opens to the
other that heart of ideal aspirations which they have often hid
till then; each, thus knowing the ideal of the other, tries to
fulfil that ideal, each partially succeeds.
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