ants; and, as Leda, was
the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary; and
all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives
only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments,
and tinged the eyelids and the hands.'

Oliver Haddo began then to speak of Leonardo da Vinci, mingling with his
own fantasies the perfect words of that essay which, so wonderful was his
memory, he seemed to know by heart. He found exotic fancies in the
likeness between Saint John the Baptist, with his soft flesh and waving
hair, and Bacchus, with his ambiguous smile. Seen through his eyes, the
seashore in the Saint Anne had the airless lethargy of some damasked
chapel in a Spanish nunnery, and over the landscapes brooded a wan spirit
of evil that was very troubling. He loved the mysterious pictures in
which the painter had sought to express something beyond the limits of
painting, something of unsatisfied desire and of longing for unhuman
passions. Oliver Haddo found this quality in unlikely places, and his
words gave a new meaning to paintings that Margaret had passed
thoughtlessly by. There was the portrait of a statuary by Bronzino in the
Long Gallery of the Louvre. The features were rather large, the face
rather broad. The expression was sombre, almost surly in the repose of
the painted canvas, and the eyes were brown, almond-shaped like those of
an Oriental; the red lips were exquisitely modelled, and the sensuality
was curiously disturbing; the dark, chestnut hair, cut short, curled over
the head with an infinite grace. The skin was like ivory softened with a
delicate carmine. There was in that beautiful countenance more than
beauty, for what most fascinated the observer was a supreme and
disdainful indifference to the passion of others. It was a vicious face,
except that beauty could never be quite vicious; it was a cruel face,
except that indolence could never be quite cruel. It was a face that
haunted you, and yet your admiration was alloyed with an unreasoning
terror. The hands were nervous and adroit, with long fashioning fingers;
and you felt that at their touch the clay almost moulded itself into
gracious forms. With Haddo's subtle words the character of that man rose
before her, cruel yet indifferent, indolent and passionate, cold yet
sensual; unnatural secrets dwelt in his mind, and mysterious crimes, and
a lust for the knowledge that was arcane. Oliver Haddo was attr