There is the sketch of the woman in _The Italian in England_, a never to be forgotten thing.

It is no wonder the exile remembered her till he died.
There is the image we form of the woman in _The Flowers Name_.

He does not describe her; she is far away, but her imagined character and presence fill the garden with an incense sweeter than all the flowers, and her beauty irradiates all beauty, so delicately and so plenteously does the lover's passion make her visible.

There is _Evelyn Hope_, and surely no high and pure love ever created a more beautiful soul in a woman than hers who waits her lover in the spiritual world.

There are those on whom we have already dwelt--Pippa, Colombe, Mildred, Guendolen.
There is the woman in the _Flight of the Duchess_; not a sketch, but a completed picture.