Amid all that gorgeous
pageant in which mediaeval angels; were mixed with classic youths and
flower-crowned; maidens, in such a medley of fantastic beauty as
could never have been imagined save by a painter; who was one-third
artist, one-third madman, and one-third seer--amid all the marvels of
that strange, uncanny culmination of the neo-Romantic movement in Art
which had excited the admiration of one set of the London critics and
the scorn of others, I had really and fully seen but one face--the
face of Isis, or Pelagia, or Eve, or _Natura Benigna_, or whosoever
she was looking at me with those dear eyes of Winnie's which were my
very life--looking at me with the same bewitching, indescribable
expression that they wore when she sat with her 'Prince of the Mist'
on Snowdon. I tried to take in the _ensemble_. In vain! Nothing but
the face and figure of Winifred--crowned with seaweed as in the
Raxton photograph--could stay for the thousandth part of a second
upon my eyes.
'Wilderspin,' I said, 'I cannot do the picture justice at this
moment.
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