had what they
call "a fine figure,"--that she was tall, for a woman, and slender
without being thin; that she bore herself well, with an air of strength,
with an air of suppleness and resistance. He could even see how she was
dressed: in grey cloth, close-fitting, with grey driving-gloves, and a
big black hat that carried out the darkness of her hair. And he was
intrepid enough to trust his man's judgment, and to formulate an opinion
of her dress. She was very well dressed, he ventured to opine; far too
cunningly and meticulously dressed for an Englishwoman. There was
something of French unity, intention, finish, in her toilet; there was
_line_ in it, the direct, crisp line, that only foreign women seem
anxious to achieve.

And he said, "I rather hope it _is_ Madame Torrebianca--since one has got
to know her. She looks as if she might have a spice of something in her
not utterly banale."

If that was n't saying a great deal, he reflected, one seldom enough, in
our staid, our stale society, meets a person of whom one can say so
much;--and again dismissed her.

But still again, presently, back she came; and then again and again, in
spite of him. And her comings now were preceded by a strange little
perturbation. A strange little vague feeling of pleasantness, as if
something good had happened to him would begin, and well up, and grow
within him, penetrating and intensifying his sense of the summer
sweetness round about, till it distracted his attention, and he must
suspend his occupation of the moment, to wonder, "What is it?" In
response, the vague pleasantness, like a cloud, would draw together and
take shape; and there was the spirited grey figure in the dog-cart, with
the black hat, and the dark hair and eyes, again dashing past him.

And little by little he discovered that she was more than merely pretty
and interesting-looking. Her face, with all its piquancy, was a serious
face, a strenuous face. Under its humour and vivacity, he discovered a
glow . . . a glow . . . could it be the glow of a soul? Her eyes were
lustrous, but they were deep, as well. A quality shone in them rarer
even than character: a natural quality, indeed, and one that should
naturally be common: but one that is rare in England among women--among
nice women, at least: the quality of sex. The woman in the dog-cart was
nice. About that, he recognised with instant certainty, there could be
no two conjectures. But she was also, he