or forward into it. That evening when you went for a walk
with your faithful friend, the friend from whom you hid nothing--
or almost nothing...! You were, in truth, somewhat inclined
to hide from him the particular matter which monopolised your mind
that evening, but somehow you contrived to get on to it,
drawn by an overpowering fascination. And as your faithful friend
was sympathetic and discreet, and flattered you by a respectful curiosity,
you proceeded further and further into the said matter,
growing more and more confidential, until at last you cried out,
in a terrific whisper: "My boy, she is simply miraculous!"
At that moment you were in the domain of literature.


Let me explain. Of course, in the ordinary acceptation of the word,
she was not miraculous. Your faithful friend had never noticed
that she was miraculous, nor had about forty thousand other
fairly keen observers. She was just a girl. Troy had not been
burnt for her. A girl cannot be called a miracle. If a girl
is to be called a miracle, then you might call pretty nearly
anything a miracle.... That is just it: you might. You can. You ought.
Amid all the miracles of the universe you had just wakened up to one.
You were full of your discovery. You were under a divine impulsion
to impart that discovery. You had a strong sense of the marvellous
beauty of something, and you had to share it. You were in a passion
about something, and you had to vent yourself on somebody.
You were drawn towards the whole of the rest of the human race.
Mark the effect of your mood and utterance on your faithful friend.
He knew that she was not a miracle. No other person could have
made him believe that she was a miracle. But you, by the force and
sincerity of your own vision of her, and by the fervour