mpression of Milly's unhappy case. Mere emphasis, a simple
underlining of plain words, could never produce the same effect. What
is needed is some method which will enable an onlooker to see round
the object, to left and right, as far as possible, just as with two
eyes, stereoscopically, we shape and solidify the flat impression of a
sphere. By such a method the image will be so raised out of its
setting that the stream of vision will wash it on either side, leaving
no doubt of its substantial form. And so, dealing with the case of
Milly, Henry James proceeds to cut behind it, lavishing his care on
any but its chief and most memorable aspect. That may wait; meanwhile
the momentary flutter of her nerves and fancies is closely noted,
wherever her life touches the lives about her, or the few of them that
are part of her story. The play draws a steady curve around the
subject in the midst; more and more of this outer rim of her
consciousness moves into sight. She is seen in the company of the
different people who affect her nearly, but in all their intercourse
the real burden of her story is veiled under the trembling, wavering
delicacy of her immediate thought. Her manner of living and thinking
and feeling in the moment is thus revealed in a wide sweep, and at
last the process is complete; her case is set free, stands out, and
casts its shadow.

These difficulties, these hopes and fears that have been buried in
silence, are all included in the sphere of experience which the author
has rounded; and by leaving them where they lie he has given us a
sense of their substance, of the space they occupy, which we could not
have acquired from a straight, square account of them. Milly desired
to live, she had every reason in the world for so desiring, and she
knew, vaguely at first, then with certainty, that she had no life to
hope for; it is a deep agitation which is never at rest. It is far
out of sight; but its influence spreads in every direction, and here
and there it must touch the surface, even one upon which appearances
are maintained so valiantly. And if the surface (which is all we know)
is thus high above the depths, and yet there are instants when it is
just perceptibly disturbed by things unseen, is it not proved, as it
could be proved in no other way, how active and forcible they must be?
By no picture of them but by an enactment of their remotest
manifestations--that is how their strength, their bulk, their range in