For five years the lover in him that had loved so often had been starved of all but dreams.

Only at twilight and dusk in the summer, when, strolling, he caught sight of a woman's skirt, far up the village street--half-outlined in the darkness under the cathedral arch of meeting branches--this romancer of petticoats could sigh a true lover's sigh, and, if he kept enough distance between, fly a yearning fancy that his lady wandered there.
Ever since his university days the image of her had been growing more and more distinct.

He had completely settled his mind as to her appearance and her voice.

She was tall, almost too tall, he was sure of that; and out of his consciousness there had grown a sweet and vivacious young face that he knew was hers.

Her hair was light-brown with gold lustres (he reveled in the gold lustres, on the proper theory that when your fancy is painting a picture you may as well go in for the whole thing and make it sumptuous), and her eyes were gray.