'You think her handsome, Madge?'

Gower asked it, wishing to hear a devotee's confusion of qualities and
looks.

The question was a drop on lower spheres, and it required definitions, to
touch the exact nature of the form of beauty, and excuse a cooler tone on
the commoner plane. These demanded language. She rounded the
difficulty, saying: 'You see engravings of archery; that 's her figure--
her real figure. I think her face . . . I can't describe . . . it
flashes.'

'That's it,' said Gower, delighted with his perception of a bare mind at
work and hitting the mark perforce of warmth. 'When it flashes, it's
unequalled. There's the supremacy of irregular lines. People talk of
perfect beauty: suitable for paintings and statues. Living faces, if
they're to show the soul, which is the star on the peak of beauty, must
lend themselves to commotion. Nature does it in a breezy tree or over
ruffled waters. Repose has never such splendid reach as animation--
I mean, in the living face. Artists prefer repose. Only Nature can
express the uttermost beauty with her gathering and tuning of discords.
Well, your mistress has that beauty. I remember my impression when I saw
her first on her mountains abroad. Other beautiful faces of women go
pale, grow stale. The diversified in the harmony of the flash are
Nature's own, her radiant, made of her many notes, beyond our dreams to
reproduce. We can't hope to have a true portrait of your mistress. Does
Madge understand?'

The literary dose was a strong one for her; but she saw the index, and
got a lift from the sound. Her bosom heaved. 'Oh, I do try, Mr. Gower.