The line of the chin and the throat and the sweet round curve of the shoulder had in it something indescribable--something that was related to music, and that eluded speech.

Her hair was nothing more than a warm colored mist without form or outline.

The sloe-brown of her little eyes and the flush of her cheek were mere inferences--like the faintest stars that are never visible when looked at directly; and it seemed to him that there was disengaged from her something for which there was no name; something that appealed to a mysterious sixth sense--a sense that only stirred at such quiet moments as this; something that was now a dim, sweet radiance, now a faint aroma, and now again a mere essence, an influence, an impression--nothing more.

It seemed to him as if her sweet, clean purity and womanliness took a form of its own which his accustomed senses were too gross to perceive.

Only a certain vague tenderness in him went out to meet and receive this impalpable presence; a tenderness not for her only, but for all the good things of the world.