"Oh," said Peter, "it's one of those stories that can scarcely
be told. There's hardly any thing to take hold of. It's
without incident, without progression--it's all subjective
--it's a drama in states of mind. Pauline was a 'thing seen,'
indeed; but she wasn't a thing known: she was a thing divined.
Wildmay never knew her--never even knew who she was--never knew
her name--never even knew her nationality, though, as the book
shows, he guessed her to be an Englishwoman, married to a
Frenchman. He simply saw her, from a distance, half-a-dozen
times perhaps. He saw her in Paris, once or twice, at the
theatre, at the opera; and then later again, once or twice, in
London; and then, once more, in Paris, in the Bois. That was
all, but that was enough. Her appearance--her face, her eyes,
her smile, her way of carrying herself, her way of carrying her
head, her gestures, her movements, her way of dressing--he
never so much as heard her voice--her mere appearance made an
impression on him such as all the rest of womankind had totally
failed to make. She was exceedingly lovely, of course,
exceedingly distinguished, noble-looking; but she was
infinitely more. Her face her whole person--had an expression!
A spirit burned in her--a prismatic, aromatic fire. Other
women seemed dust, seemed dead, beside her. She was a garden,
inexhaustible, of promises, of suggestions. Wit,
capriciousness, generosity, emotion--you have said it--they
were all there. Race was there, nerve. Sex was there--all the
mystery, magic, all the essential, elemental principles of the
Feminine, were there: she was a woman. A wonderful, strenuous
soul was there: Wildmay saw it, felt it. He did n't know her
--he had no hope of ever knowing her--but he knew her better