fixed on the
window, listening to the birds singing in the vine--it was already in
leaf, and the shadows of the leaves danced across the carpet--he sought
to define that sense of delight--he could find no other words for
it--which she exhaled unconsciously as a flower exhales its perfume,
that joy of life which she scattered with as little premeditation as the
birds scattered their songs. But though he was constantly seeking some
new form of expression of her charm, he always came back to the words
'sense of delight.' Sometimes he added that sense of delight which we
experience when we go out of the house on an April morning and find
everything growing about us, the sky wilful and blue, and the clouds
going by, saying, 'Be happy, as we are.'

She was so different from every other woman. All other women were plain
instincts, come into the world for the accomplishment of things that
women had accomplished for thousands of years. Other women think as
their mothers thought, and as their daughters will think, expressing the
thoughts of the countless generations behind and in front of them. But
this woman was moved merely by impulses; and what is more inexplicable
than an impulse? What is the spring but an impulse? and this woman was
mysterious, evanescent as its breath, with the same irresponsible
seduction. He was certain that she was at last clear to him, though she
might become dark to him again. One day she had come to gather flowers,
and while arranging her posy she said casually: 'You are a ruler in this
parish; you direct it, the administration of the parish is your
business, and I am the little amusement that you turn to when your
business is done.' He had not known how to answer her. In this way her
remarks often covered him with confusion. She just thought as she
pleased, and spoke as she pleased, and he returned to his idea that she
was more like the primitive woman than anybody else.

Pondering on her words for the hundredth time, they seemed to him
stranger than ever. That any human being should admit that she was but
the delight of another's life seemed at first only extraordinary, but if
one considered her words, it seemed to signify knowledge--latent, no
doubt--that her beauty was part of the great agency. Her words implied
that she was aware of her mission. It was her unconscious self that
spoke, and it was that which gave significance to her words.

His thoughts melted into nothingness, and when he awoke