She might well be sung by that chap, Swinburne.
Perhaps he had had somebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in the book there on the table.

All this plethora of sight, and feeling, and thought occurred on the instant.

There was no pause of the realities wherein he moved.

He saw her hand coming out to his, and she looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly, like a man.
The women he had known did not shake hands that way.

For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all.