We had been moving onward for some little time, when the girl’s companion addressed an observation to her.  She heard it imperfectly, and lifted her veil while it was being repeated.  How painfully my heart beat!  I could almost hear it—­as her face was, for the first time, freely and fairly disclosed!

She was dark.  Her hair, eyes, and complexion were darker than usual in English women.  The form, the look altogether, of her face, coupled with what I could see of her figure, made me guess her age to be about twenty.  There was the appearance of maturity already in the shape of her features; but their expression still remained girlish, unformed, unsettled.  The fire in her large dark eyes, when she spoke, was latent.  Their languor, when she was silent—­that voluptuous languor of black eyes—­was still fugitive and unsteady.  The smile about her full lips (to other eyes, they might have looked too full) struggled to be eloquent, yet dared not.  Among women, there always seems something left incomplete—­a moral creation to be superinduced on the physical—­which love alone can develop, and which maternity perfects still further, when developed.  I thought, as I looked on her, how the passing colour would fix itself brilliantly on her round, olive cheek; how the expression that still hesitated to declare itself, would speak out at last, would shine forth in the full luxury of its beauty, when she heard the first words, received the first kiss, from the man she loved!

While I still looked at her, as she sat opposite speaking to her companion, our eyes met.  It was only for a moment—­but the sensation of a moment often makes the thought of a life; and that one little instant made the new life of my heart.  She put down her veil again immediately; her lips moved involuntarily as she lowered it:  I thought I could discern, through the lace, that the slight movement ripened to a smile.

Still there was enough left to see—­enough to charm.  There was the little rim of delicate white lace, encircling the lovely, dusky throat; there was the figure visible, where the shawl had fallen open, slender, but already well developed in its slenderness, and exquisitely supple; there was the waist, naturally low, and left to its natural place and natural size; there were the little millinery and jewellery ornaments that she wore—­simple and common-place enough in themselves—­yet each a beauty, each a treasure, on her. There was all this to behold, all this to dwell on, in spite of the veil.  The veil! how little of the woman does it hide, when the man really loves her!

We had nearly arrived at the last point to which the omnibus would take us, when she and her companion got out.  I followed them, cautiously and at some distance.

She was tall—­tall at least for a woman.  There were not many people in the road along which we were proceeding; but even if there had been, far behind as I was walking, I should never have lost her—­never have mistaken any one else for her.  Already, strangers though we were, I felt that I should know her, almost at any distance, only by her walk.