ssion was distant, unchanging ... but what
was that to him? This deep white skin, the purity of which was only
broken by the pale red of the lips; this dull black hair, which lay
back from the low brow in such wonderful curves, and seemed, of itself,
to fall into the loose knot on the neck--there was something romantic,
exotic about her, which was unlike anything he had ever seen: she made
him think of a rare, hothouse flower; some scentless, tropical flower,
with stiff, waxen petals. And then her eyes! So profound was their
darkness that, when they threw off their covering of heavy lid, it
seemed to his excited fancy as if they must scorch what they rested on;
they looked out from the depths of their setting like those of a wild
beast crouched within a cavern; they lit up about them like stars, and
when they fell, they went out like stars, and her face took on the
pallor of early dawn.

She was playing from memory. She gazed straight before her with
far-away eyes, which only sometimes looked down at her hands, to aid
them in a difficult passage. At her belt, she wore a costly yellow
rose, and as she once leaned towards the treble, where both hands were
at work close together, it fell to the floor. Maurice started forward,
and picking it up, laid it on the piano; beneath the gaslight, it sank
a shadowy gold image in the mirror-like surface. As yet she had paid no
heed to him, but, at this, she turned her head, and, still continuing
to play, let her eyes rest absently on him.

They sank their eyes in each other's. A thrill ran through Maurice, a
quick, sharp thrill, which no sensation of his later life outdid in
keenness and which, on looking back, he could always feel afresh. The
colour rose to his face and his heart beat audibly, but he did not
lower his eyes, and for not doing so, seemed to himself infinitely
bold. A host of confused feelings bore down upon him, well-nigh
blotting out the light; but, in a twinkling, all were swallowed up in
an overpowering sense of gratitude, in a large, vague, happy
thankfulness, which touched him almost to the point of tears. As it
swelled through him and possessed him, he yearned to pour it forth, to
make an offering of this gratefulness--fine tangle of her beauty and
his own glad mood--and, by sustaining her look, he seemed to lay the
offering at her feet. Nor would any tongue have persuaded him that she
did not understand. The few seconds were eternities: when she turned
away i