her lips, his breath was caught, as though of a sudden she had
smiled for him, and for him alone. Near to her was a maiden of
Hellas, resting upon a marble seat, her eyes bent towards some AEgean
isle; the translucent robe clung about her perfect body; her breast
was warm against the white stone; the mazes of her woven hair shone
with unguent. The gazer lost himself in memories of epic and idyll,
warming through worship to desire. Then his look strayed to the next
engraving; a peasant girl, consummate in grace and strength, supreme
in chaste pride, cheek and neck soft-glowing from the sunny field,
eyes revealing the heart at one with nature. Others there were,
women of many worlds, only less beautiful; but by these three the
young man was held bound. He could not satisfy himself with looking
and musing; he could not pluck himself away. An old experience; he
always lingered by the print shops of the Haymarket, and always went
on with troubled blood, with mind rapt above familiar circumstance,
dreaming passionately, making wild forecast of his fate.

At this hour of the morning not many passers had leisure to stand
and gaze; one, however, came to a pause beside Piers Otway, and
viewed the engravings. He was a man considerably older; not so well
dressed, but still, on the strength of externals, entitled to the
style of gentleman; his brown, hard felt hat was entirely
respectable, as were his tan gloves and his boots, but the cut-away
coat began to hint at release from service, and the trousers owed a
superficial smartness merely to being tightly strapped. This man had
a not quite agreeable face; inasmuch as it was smoothly shaven, and
exhibited a peculiar mobility, it might have denoted him an actor;
but the actor is wont to twinkle a good-natured mood which did not
appear upon this visage. The contour was good, and spoke
intelligence; the eyes must once have been charming. It was a face