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It was a beautiful face upon which he
watched the play of lights, saw the changing currents of thought and
dreams and purpose. But the thing most rare in it, that which made one
quite forget accepted standards, was the steadfastness with which a
certain great light shone through the aura of her tenderness. There were
moments in which she transcended both her beauty and her beauty's
weaknesses.
As the flower to the sun, naturally, quietly, inevitably, she had
expanded under the breath of life. With the fullness of a rich nature she
had responded to the touch of the spirit of living. Love loved her for
what she had been able to take.
And in the year which had passed, life, with tender rather than defacing
lines, had put upon her face the touch of sorrow. Europe meant more to
her than an Old World civilisation, more than tradition, beauty or art.
It even meant more than the place where she had spent those first dear
months of her love. It meant to her the place where she had hoped with
woman's dearest hope, and where she had given up the child which should
have been hers.


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