Caroline, she subsequently learnt, had likewise been a fool.

Instead of marvelling at the genius that had done so much in spite of the pair of fools that were the right and left wing of her battle array, the simple-minded lady wept.

She wanted success, not genius.

Admiration she was ever ready to forfeit for success.
Nor did she say to the tailors of earth: 'Weep, for I sought to emancipate you from opprobrium by making one of you a gentleman; I fought for a great principle and have failed.' Heroic to the end, she herself shed all the tears; took all the sorrow.
Where was consolation?
Would any Protestant clergyman administer comfort to her?
Could he?
might he do so?
He might listen, and quote texts; but he would demand the harsh rude English for everything; and the Countess's confessional thoughts were all innuendoish, aerial; too delicate to live in our shameless tongue.

Confession by implication, and absolution; she could know this to be what she wished for, and yet not think it.