that radiance. But no such luck for him. His wits had come
unscathed through the furnaces of hot suns, of blazing deserts, of
flaming angers against the weaknesses of men and the obstinate
cruelties of hostile nature.

Being sane he had to be constantly on his guard against falling
into adoring silences or breaking out into wild speeches. He had
to keep watch on his eyes, his limbs, on the muscles of his face.
Their conversations were such as they could be between these two
people: she a young lady fresh from the thick twilight of four
million people and the artificiality of several London seasons; he
the man of definite conquering tasks, the familiar of wide
horizons, and in his very repose holding aloof from these
agglomerations of units in which one loses one's importance even to
oneself. They had no common conversational small change. They had
to use the great pieces of general ideas, but they exchanged them
trivially. It was no serious commerce. Perhaps she had not much
of that coin. Nothing significant came from her. It could not be
said that she had received from the contacts of the external world
impressions of a personal kind, different from other women. What
was ravishing in her was her quietness and, in her grave attitudes,
the unfailing brilliance of her femininity. He did not know what
there was under that ivory forehead so splendidly shaped, so
gloriously crowned. He could not tell what were her thoughts, her
feelings. Her replies were reflective, always preceded by a short
silence, while he hung on her lips anxiously. He felt himself in
the presence of a mysterious being in whom spoke an unknown voice,
like the voice of oracles, bringing everlasting unrest to the
heart.