The pose, my dear lady, the pose! Unstudied grace of abandonment, artless perfection! Perfection as a whole, perfection in detail! Consider the right hand: so blissfully burdened. Consider the left: still clasping some poem only less exquisite than itself. The eyelids are faintly blue—surely with the sky of a delicate dream. From head to foot every curve is a lyric—from head—I should like to see her foot.
(He looks sadly at her covered feet.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Haven’t you the courage?
Dean.
I beg your pardon?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
To look at it.
Dean.
Mrs. O’Farrel!