He saw her dress. He saw her scarf to be some filmy veil about her shoulders and that beneath it all her throat was bare. He saw that it was turned about her throat in a loose fold that lay where her bosom was disclosed by the silk evening gown she wore, draped low, but maidenly discreet. At throat, at breast, at arms, at hands, he saw this filmy thing was challenged of its whiteness and seemed to take a shade.
She moved; he thought to speak. Mystery was here and held him on its threshold.
Watching her he had a sudden new conception of her quality. Later, when he had spoken to her, when he had left her, when he trod again each passage of their meeting, recalled her voice, her mode of speech, and how she bore herself, he recalled that conception and knew it was most proper to her, and thrilled to know it so.
As he looked, and afterwards as he remembered, he conceived the word that estimated all her beauty, all her quality and her degree—frozen. Frozen and thus invested with the strange rareness that frozen beauty has. Frozen and thus most proper that those flames upon her cheeks never could stain beyond themselves, as blood that will not run in snow; proper the quaint precision of the words she used, as icicles broken in a cold hand; proper the high pitch of her voice, curiously hard, without modulations, as winter sounds are hard.
Snow-White-and-Rose-Red—and frozen snow and frozen red. She was that in his new discovery of her: and was that better than he knew; caparisoned and trained for that.
III
She raised to her face the pansies he had seen her gather, caressed them a moment against her lips, then turned and went a few steps back. And then he spoke—stepped from the pillar's shadow and into mystery's doors and called her—"Dora!"
The little breezes ran among the flowers: "Bend! Bend! you sleepy things and blow her your caresses where she moves again!"—ran among the tree-tops high above the borders: "Salute! Salute! you sentinels, and show your joy, she comes!"—chased from her path a daring leaf or two—sprung to her person and bade her veil attend her—caught his low whisper and tossed it from her ears.
Tiny the stir; yet stiller all the voice he made. He waited; breathed her name again—"Dora!" and then she heard.
She gave the faintest start; turned, and said, "Why—Percival?" and then a little laugh, and then spoke "Percival!" again.