But I fear I could not give a rich, idle man--even if he were
Henry himself--enough love to satisfy a yearning like yours.'
She bent her face again over the water, and looked at the picture.
'You have often told me that my face is beautiful, Henry, and you
know you never could make me believe it. But suppose you should be
right after all, and suppose that you were a painter, and used it for
a picture of the Spirit of Snowdon, I should then thank God for
having given me a beautiful face, for it would enable you to win your
goal. And afterwards, when its beauty had passed away, as it soon
would, I should have no further need for beauty, for my
painter-husband would, partly through me, have won.'
As we walked along, she pointed to the tubular bridge over the Menai
Straits and to the coast of Anglesey. The panorama had that
fairy-like expression which belongs so peculiarly to Welsh scenery.
Other mountainous countries in Europe are beautiful, and since that
divine walk I have become intimately acquainted with them, but for
associations romantic and poetic, there is surely no land in the
world equal to North Wales.
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