to look at me.  I was conscious of this in a vague, far-off way, much as one is conscious of a conversation which seems to have followed him across the borderland of sleep, and I even thought that I ought to be embarrassed.  How long I remained thus transported I do not know.  The first thing I remember is hearing someone close beside me take a quick, deep breath, one of those full inhalations natural to all sensitive natures when they come suddenly upon something sublime.  I turned and looked.  I have said I was transported by that canvas of sea and rocks, and have, therefore, no word left to describe the emotion with which I gazed upon the exquisite, living, palpitating picture beside me.  A composite photograph of all the Madonnas ever painted, from the Sistine to Bodenhausen’s, could not have been more lovely, more ineffably womanly than that young girl, radiant with the divine glow of artistic delight—­at least, that is my opinion, which, by the bye, I should, perhaps, have stated a little more gingerly, inasmuch as you are yourself acquainted with the young lady.  Now, don’t look incredulous [noticing my surprise].  Black hair—­not brown, black; clear pink and white complexion; large, deep violet eyes with a remarkable poise to them.”—­Here I continued the description for him:  “Slight of figure; a full, honest waist, without a suggestion of that execrable death-trap, Dame Fashion’s hideous cuirass; a little above middle height; deliberate, and therefore graceful, in all her movements; carries herself in a way to impress one with the idea that she is innocent, without that time-honoured concomitant, ignorance; half girl, half woman; shy, yet strong; and in a word, very beautiful—­that’s Gwen Darrow.”  I paused here, and Maitland went on somewhat dubiously:  “Yes, it’s not hard to locate such a woman.  She makes her presence as clearly felt among a million of her sex as does a grain of fuchsine in a hogshead of water.  If, with a few ounces of this, Tyndall could colour Lake Geneva, so with Gwen Darrow one might, such is the power of the ideal, change the ethical status of a continent.”

He then told me how he had made a study of Miss Darrow’s movements, and had met her many times since; in fact, so often that he fancied, from something in her manner, that she had begun to wonder if his frequent appearance were not something more than a coincidence.  The fear that she might think him dogging her footsteps worried him, and he began as sedulously to avoid the places he knew she frequented, as he previously had sought them.  This, he confessed, made him utterly miserable.  He had, to be sure, never spoken to her, but it was everything to be able to see her.  When he could endure it no longer he had come to me under pretence of feeling ill, that he might, when he had made my acquaintance, get me to introduce him to the Darrows.