h me. But does any one sleep? There is no
air!

O father, why are you not here! We went to the theatre to see a
woman--I told you we were going. I never so longed for speech. If only
I might describe her, even half worthily! I send you a package of
photographs, all I can find, but they stammer and halt as I do. First,
she is tall, very tall, I think, and there is in her a strange mingling
of angularity and the divinest grace. She seems to have members like
another, but the most perfect genius and harmony in the use of them.
Her hand is gracious, large; it has not that subtile outline of Zoe's,
but she uses it as an instrument potent for beauty. Her head is not set
proudly, her shoulders are not like the pine-tree, and Mrs. Montrose
tells me her clothes are wrinkled and sometimes frayed at the seams.
But her face! All the Graces strove for mastery, and threw their gifts
at her in a blind contention, so that none of them agree. They simply
strive together like a company of angels, ill-assorted, and give you
the effect of a lovely surprise. Her brows are full of pathos. Between
them there is ever a little irregular frown; and her eyes look out
beneath, imploring, piteous, saying, "I have lost my way. Will somebody
tell me where to go?" And her mouth! O, the merriest mouth, made for
joy, made for light words and blithest laughter! Her hair is dancing
yellow, and she herself dances, her spirit most of all. I have felt
joy, but I never saw it until now. Zoe laughs at me, and opens her eyes
because I have begun to talk of good and bad, of beauty and ugliness.
She says I am too apt. It is true that I have done little but study
faces since I came. Many are like animals. Some I love; some I hate at
once. I have seen three persons who are deformed, with humps on their
backs. They have a strange old look, with a queer brightness in the
eyes; and when I catch that look on those who are straight and well, I
wonder if they are deformed in the soul. But whoever else is to be
shrunk from, my player-lady is all-worthy. As I saw her fleet about the
stage, buoyant in joy and then maddened by grief unspeakable, I did not
see her alone. I caught glimpses of Shakespeare's women, for she had a
trace of them all: Portia, full-winged for justice; Juliet,
passion-doomed; Imogen, your love of loves; but most of all Beatrice,
the iris-spirit, and Ophelia, piteously undone. Then I remembered, "A
star danced," and hot tears burned my eyes. Father, ho