e stories that can scarcely be told.
There's hardly any thing to take hold of. It's without incident, without
progression--it's all subjective--it's a drama in states of mind.
Pauline was a 'thing seen,' indeed; but she wasn't a thing known: she
was a thing divined. Wildmay never knew her--never even knew who she
was--never knew her name--never even knew her nationality, though,
as the book shows, he guessed her to be an Englishwoman, married to
a Frenchman. He simply saw her, from a distance, half-a-dozen times
perhaps. He saw her in Paris, once or twice, at the theatre, at the
opera; and then later again, once or twice, in London; and then, once
more, in Paris, in the Bois. That was all, but that was enough. Her
appearance--her face, her eyes, her smile, her way of carrying herself,
her way of carrying her head, her gestures, her movements, her way of
dressing--he never so much as heard her voice--her mere appearance
made an impression on him such as all the rest of womankind had totally
failed to make. She was exceedingly lovely, of course, exceedingly
distinguished, noble-looking; but she was infinitely more. Her face her
whole person--had an expression! A spirit burned in her--a prismatic,
aromatic fire. Other women seemed dust, seemed dead, beside her. She
was a garden, inexhaustible, of promises, of suggestions. Wit,
capriciousness, generosity, emotion--you have said it--they were all
there. Race was there, nerve. Sex was there--all the mystery, magic, all
the essential, elemental principles of the Feminine, were there: she was
a woman. A wonderful, strenuous soul was there: Wildmay saw it, felt it.
He did n't know her--he had no hope of ever knowing her--but he knew her
better than he knew any one else in the world. She became the absorbing
subject of his thoughts, the heroine of his dreams. She became, in fact,
the supreme influence of his life."

The Duchessa's eyes had not lost their intentness, while he was
speaking. Now that he had finished, she looked down at her hands, folded
in her lap, and mused for a moment in silence. At last she looked up
again.

"It's as strange as anything I have ever heard," she said, "it's
furiously strange--and romantic--and interesting. But--but--" She
frowned a little, hesitating between a choice of questions.

"Oh, it's a story all compact of 'buts,'" Peter threw out laughing.

She let the remark pass her--she had settled upon her question.

"But how could he endure such