How intensely the sight of these wonderful lines moved me!  I felt that I could worship her, literally.  That she had become to me as a religion is to the enthusiast.

I must be the possessor, the sole owner of her.  I felt she was mine already.  The agony and the loss, if she ever gave herself to another, would be unendurable.  If that happened I should let a revolver end everything for me.  I did not believe even the thought of my work would save me.

Yet how curious this same passion is, I reflected, gazing at the exquisite image on the paper before me.  If one of these lines were bent out of shape, twisted, or crooked, this same passion would cease to be.  The love and affection and esteem I had for her would remain, but this intense desire and longing for her to be my own property, which shook me now to the very depths of my system, would utterly vanish.

Yet it would be wrong to say that these lines alone had captured me, for had they enclosed a stupid or commonplace mind they would have stirred me as little as if they themselves had been imperfect.

No it is when we meet a Spirit that calls to us from within a form of outward beauty, and only then, that the greatest passion is born within us.

And that I felt for Viola now, and I knew—­looking back through a vista of other and lighter loves—­I had never known yet its equal.  She loved me, too, that great fact was like a chord of triumphant music ringing through my heart.  Then why this fancy that she would not marry me?  How could I possibly break it down? persuade her of its folly?

I walked up and down the studio all that evening, unable to go out to dinner, unable to think of anything but her, and all through the night I tossed about, restless and sleepless, longing for the hour on the following day which should bring her to me again.

Yet how those hours tried me now!  It would be impossible to continue.  She must and should marry me.  It was only for me she held back from it apparently, yet for me it would be everything.

One afternoon, after a long sitting, the power to work seemed to desert me suddenly.  My throat closed nervously, my mouth grew dry, the whole room seemed swimming round me, and the faultless, dazzling figure before me seemed receding into a darkening mist.  I flung away my brush and rose suddenly.  I felt I must move, walk about, and I started to pace the room then suddenly reeled, and saved myself by clutching at the mantelpiece.

“What is it?  What is the matter?” came Viola’s voice, sharp with anxiety, across the room.  “Are you ill?  Shall I come to you?”

“No, no,” I answered, and put my head down on the mantelpiece.  “Go and dress.  I can’t work any more.”

I heard her soft slight movements as she left the dais.  I did not turn, but sank into the armchair beside me, my face covered by my hands.

Screens of colour passed before my eyes, my ears sang.