'But surely you never saw a face which had lost by wear less of the divine image?
How thoroughly it exemplifies your great law of Protestant art, that "the Ideal is best manifested in the Peculiar." How classic, how independent of clime or race, is its bland, majestic self- possession! how thoroughly Norse its massive squareness!' 'And yet, as a Cornishman, he should be no Norseman.' 'I beg your pardon! Like all noble races, the Cornish owe their nobleness to the impurity of their blood--to its perpetual loans from foreign veins.

See how the serpentine curve of his nose, his long nostril, and protruding, sharp-cut lips, mark his share of Phoenician or Jewish blood! how Norse, again, that dome-shaped forehead! how Celtic those dark curls, that restless gray eye, with its "swinden blicken," like Von Troneg Hagen's in the Niebelungen Lied!' He turned: Honoria was devouring his words.

He saw it, for he was in love, and young love makes man's senses as keen as woman's.
'Look! look at him now!' said Claude, in a low voice.

'How he sits, with his hands on his knees, the enormous size of his limbs quite concealed by the careless grace, with his Egyptian face, like some dumb granite Memnon!' 'Only waiting,' said Lancelot, 'for the day-star to arise on him and awake him into voice.' He looked at Honoria as he spoke.

She blushed angrily; and yet a sort of sympathy arose from that moment between Lancelot and herself.
Our hero feared he had gone too far, and tried to turn the subject off.
The smooth mill-head was alive with rising trout.
'What a huge fish leapt then!' said Lancelot carelessly; 'and close to the bridge, too!' Honoria looked round, and uttered a piercing scream.
'Oh, my dog! my dog! Mops is in the river! That horrid gazelle has butted him in, and he'll be drowned!' Alas! it was too true.