favourably. As mistress of his fancy, her prospective musical triumphs
were the crown of gold hanging over her. As wife of his bosom, they were
not to be thought of. But the wife of his bosom must take her place by
virtue of some wondrous charm. What was it that Emilia could show, if
not music? Beautiful eyebrows: thick rare eyebrows, no doubt couched
upon her full eyes, they were a marvel: and her eyes were a marvel. She
had a sweet mouth, too, though the upper lip did not boast the
aristocratic conventional curve of adorable pride, or the under lip a
pretty droop to a petty rounded chin. Her face was like the aftersunset
across a rose-garden, with the wings of an eagle poised outspread on the
light. Some such coloured, vague, magnified impression Wilfrid took of
her. Still, it was not quite enough to make him scorn contempt, should
it whisper: nor even quite enough to combat successfully the image of
elegant dames in their chosen attitudes--the queenly moments when perhaps
they enter an assembly, or pour out tea with an exquisite exhibition of
arm, or recline upon a couch, commanding homage of the world of little
men. What else had this girl to count upon to make her exclusive? A
devoted heart; she had a loyal heart, and perfect frankness: a mind
impressible, intelligent, and fresh. She gave promise of fair
companionship at all seasons. She could put a spell upon him, moreover.
By that power of hers, never wilfully exercised, she came, in spite of
the effect left on him by her early awkwardnesses and 'animalities,'
nearer to his idea of superhuman nature than anything he knew of. But
how would she be regarded when the announcement of Mrs. Wilfrid Pole
brought scrutinizing eyes and gossiping mouths to bear on her?

It mattered nothing. He kissed her, and the vision of the critical world
faded to a blank. Whatever she was, he was her prime luminary, so he
determined to think that he cast light upon a precious, an unrivalled
land.