eyes confessed it all, confessed the deep peace he found in it. They
only didn't tell me why he had not written to me, nor clear up as yet a
minor obscurity. Flora after a while again lifted the glass from the
ledge of the box and elegantly swept the house with it. Then, by the
mere instinct of her grace, a motion but half conscious, she inclined her
head into the void with the sketch of a salute, producing, I could see, a
perfect imitation of response to some homage. Dawling and I looked at
each other again; the tears came into his eyes. She was playing at
perfection still, and her misfortune only simplified the process.

I recognised that this was as near as I should ever come, certainly as I
should come that night, to pressing on her misfortune. Neither of us
would name it more than we were doing then, and Flora would never name it
at all. Little by little I saw that what had occurred was, strange as it
might appear, the best thing for her happiness. The question was now
only of her beauty and her being seen and marvelled at; with Dawling to
do for her everything in life her activity was limited to that. Such an
activity was all within her scope; it asked nothing of her that she
couldn't splendidly give. As from time to time in our delicate communion
she turned her face to me with the parody of a look I lost none of the
signs of its strange new glory. The expression of the eyes was a rub of
pastel from a master's thumb; the whole head, stamped with a sort of
showy suffering, had gained a fineness from what she had passed through.
Yes, Flora was settled for life--nothing could hurt her further. I
foresaw the particular praise she would mostly incur--she would be
invariably "interesting." She would charm with her pathos more even than
she had charmed with her pleasure. For herself above all she was fixed
for ever, rescued from all change and ransomed from all doubt. Her old
certainties, her old vanities were justified and sanctified, and in the
darkness that had closed upon her one object remained clear. That