so far back over the fire that we see her face nearly upside-down.
This is no position in which we can do justice to her undoubted facial
charm. Seated near her is her brother Cosmo, a boy of thirteen, in
naval uniform. Cosmo is a cadet at Osborne, and properly proud of his
station, but just now he looks proud of nothing. He is plunged in
gloom. The cause of his woe is a telegram, which he is regarding from
all points of the compass, as if in hopes of making it send him better
news. At last he gives expression to his feelings. 'All I can say,' he
sums up in the first words of the play, 'is that if father tries to
kiss me, I shall kick him.'

If Amy makes any reply the words arrive upside-down and are
unintelligible. The maid announces Miss Dunbar. Then Amy rises, brings
her head to the position in which they are usually carried; and she
and Ginevra look into each other's eyes. They always do this when they
meet, though they meet several times a day, and it is worth doing, for
what they see in those pellucid pools is love eternal. Thus they loved
at school (in their last two terms), and thus they will love till the
grave encloses them. These thoughts, and others even more beautiful,
are in their minds as they gaze at each other now. No man will ever be
able to say 'Amy,' or to say 'Ginevra,' with such a trill as they are
saying it.

'Ginevra, my beloved.'

'My Amy, my better self.'

'My other me.'

There is something almost painful in love like this.