His voice, poignant and musical, blended with the suave music of the words so that Margaret felt she had never before known their divine significance.  She was intoxicated with their beauty.  She wished him to continue, but had not the strength to speak.  As if he guessed her thought, he went on, and now his voice had a richness in it as of an organ heard afar off.  It was like an overwhelming fragrance and she could hardly bear it.

’She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange evils with Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands.’

Oliver Haddo began then to speak of Leonardo da Vinci, mingling with his own fantasies the perfect words of that essay which, so wonderful was his memory, he seemed to know by heart.  He found exotic fancies in the likeness between Saint John the Baptist, with his soft flesh and waving hair, and Bacchus, with his ambiguous smile.  Seen through his eyes, the seashore in the Saint Anne had the airless lethargy of some damasked chapel in a Spanish nunnery, and over the landscapes brooded a wan spirit of evil that was very troubling.  He loved the mysterious pictures in which the painter had sought to express something beyond the limits of painting, something of unsatisfied desire and of longing for unhuman passions.  Oliver Haddo found this quality in unlikely places, and his words gave a new meaning to paintings that Margaret had passed thoughtlessly by.  There was the portrait of a statuary by Bronzino in the Long Gallery of the Louvre.  The features were rather large, the face rather broad.  The expression was sombre, almost surly in the repose of the painted canvas, and the eyes were brown, almond-shaped like those of an Oriental; the red lips were exquisitely modelled, and the sensuality was curiously disturbing; the dark, chestnut hair, cut short, curled over the head with an infinite grace.  The skin was like ivory softened with a delicate carmine.  There was in that beautiful countenance more than beauty, for what most fascinated the observer was a supreme and disdainful indifference to the passion of others.  It was a vicious face, except that beauty could never be quite vicious; it was a cruel face, except that indolence could never be quite cruel.  It was a face that haunted you, and yet your admiration was alloyed with an unreasoning terror.  The hands were nervous and adroit, with long fashioning fingers; and you felt that at their touch the clay almost moulded itself into gracious forms.  With Haddo’s subtle words the character of that man rose before