Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black,half-way down, in the darkness, in the shaft whichran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tearformed; a tear fell; the waters swayed this way andthat, received it, and were at rest. Never did any-body look so sad.

But was it nothing but looks, people said? Whatwas there behind it—her beauty and splendour?Had he blown his brains out, they asked, had hedied the week before they were married—someother, earlier lover, of whom rumours reached one?Or was there nothing? nothing but an incomparablebeauty which she lived behind, and could do noth-ing to disturb? For easily though she might havesaid at some moment of intimacy when stories ofgreat passion, of love foiled, of ambition thwartedcame her way how she too had known or felt orbeen through it herself, she never spoke. She wassilent always. She knew then—she knew withouthaving learnt. Her simplicity fathomed what cleverpeople falsified. Her singleness of mind made herdrop plumb like a stone, alight exact as a bird, gaveher, naturally, this swoop and fall of the spirit upontruth which delighted, eased, sustained—falselyperhaps.

("Nature has but little clay," said Mr. Bankesonce, much moved by her voice on the telephone,46
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