He turned to observe what this object was that had so unexpectedly diverted the young man's attention.

It was the girl.
She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky.

There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal.
Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.

He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way.
He had not noticed the girl particularly when she offered the sandwiches; but in this moment he found her beautiful.

Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.