Ione was one of those brilliant characters which, but once or twice, flash across our career.  She united in the highest perfection the rarest of earthly gifts—­Genius and Beauty.  No one ever possessed superior intellectual qualities without knowing them—­the alliteration of modesty and merit is pretty enough, but where merit is great, the veil of that modesty you admire never disguises its extent from its possessor.  It is the proud consciousness of certain qualities that it cannot reveal to the everyday world, that gives to genius that shy, and reserved, and troubled air, which puzzles and flatters you when you encounter it.

Ione, then, knew her genius; but, with that charming versatility that belongs of right to women, she had the faculty so few of a kindred genius in the less malleable sex can claim—­the faculty to bend and model her graceful intellect to all whom it encountered.  The sparkling fountain threw its waters alike upon the strand, the cavern, and the flowers; it refreshed, it smiled, it dazzled everywhere.  That pride, which is the necessary result of superiority, she wore easily—­in her breast it concentred itself in independence.  She pursued thus her own bright and solitary path.  She asked no aged matron to direct and guide her—­she walked alone by the torch of her own unflickering purity.  She obeyed no tyrannical and absolute custom.  She moulded custom to her own will, but this so delicately and with so feminine a grace, so perfect an exemption from error, that you could not say she outraged custom but commanded it.  The wealth of her graces was inexhaustible—­she beautified the commonest action; a word, a look from her, seemed magic.  Love her, and you entered into a new world, you passed from this trite and commonplace earth.  You were in a land in which your eyes saw everything through an enchanted medium.  In her presence you felt as if listening to exquisite music; you were steeped in that sentiment which has so little of earth in it, and which music so well inspires—­that intoxication which refines and exalts, which seizes, it is true, the senses, but gives them the character of the soul.

She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and fascinate the less ordinary and the bolder natures of men; to love her was to unite two passions, that of love and of ambition—­you aspired when you adored her.  It was no wonder that she had completely chained and subdued the mysterious but burning soul of the Egyptian, a man in whom dwelt the fiercest passions.  Her beauty and her soul alike enthralled him.

Set apart himself from the common world, he loved that daringness of character which also made itself, among common things, aloof and alone.  He did not, or he would not see, that that very isolation put her yet more from him than from the vulgar.  Far as the poles—­far as the night from day, his solitude was divided from hers.  He was solitary from his dark and solemn vices—­she from her beautiful fancies and her purity of virtue.