He thought that Lady Holme
herself did not understand this hidden woman, did not realise, as he did,
that she existed. She spoke to him sometimes in Lady Holme's singing,
sometimes in an expression in her eyes when she was serious, sometimes
even in a bodily attitude. For Robin, half fantastically, put faith in
the eloquence of line as a revealer of character, of soul. But she did
not speak to him in Lady Holme's conversation. He really thought this
hidden woman was obscured by the lovely window--he conceived it as a
window of exquisite stained glass, jewelled but concealing--through which
she was condemned to look for ever, through which, too, all men must look
at her. He really wished sometimes, as he had said, that Lady Holme were
ugly, for he had a fancy that perhaps then, and only then, would the
hidden woman arise and be seen as a person may be seen through unstained,
clear glass. He really felt that what he loved would be there to love if
the face that ruled was ruined; would not only still be there to love,
but would become more powerful, more true to itself, more understanding
of itself, more reliant, purer, braver. And he had learnt to cherish this
fancy till it had become a little monomania. Robin thought that the world
misunderstood him, but he knew the world too well to say so. He never
risked being laughed at. He felt sure that he was passionate, that he was
capable of romantic deeds, of Quixotic self-sacrifice, of a devotion that
might well be sung by poets, and that would certainly be worshipped by
ardent women.
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