direction, it moves, in the service of the sense of sight; it receives
the messages of the world. But expression is outward, and the eye has it
not. There are no windows of the soul, there are only curtains; and
these show all things by seeming to hide a little more, a little less.
They hide nothing but their own secrets.

But, some may say, the eyes have emotion inasmuch as they betray it by
the waxing and contracting of the pupils. It is, however, the rarest
thing, this opening and narrowing under any influences except those of
darkness and light. It does take place exceptionally; but I am doubtful
whether those who talk of it have ever really been attentive enough to
perceive it. A nervous woman, brown-eyed and young, who stood to tell
the news of her own betrothal, and kept her manners exceedingly composed
as she spoke, had this waxing and closing of the pupils; it went on all
the time like a slow, slow pulse. But such a thing is not to be seen
once a year.

Moreover, it is--though so significant--hardly to be called expression.
It is not articulate. It implies emotion, but does not define, or
describe, or divide it. It is touching, insomuch as we have knowledge of
the perturbed tide of the spirit that must cause it, but it is not
otherwise eloquent. It does not tell us the quality of the thought, it
does not inform and surprise as with intricacies. It speaks no more
explicit or delicate things than does the pulse in its quickening. It
speaks with less division of meanings than does the taking of the breath,
which has impulses and degrees.

No, the eyes do their work, but do it blankly, without communication.
Openings into the being they may be, but the closed cheek is more
communicative. From them the blood of Perdita never did look out. It