"Rare--yes--yet not doubted. I knew it of her. I believe that I have broken all records--since the Renaissance at least. Love at first sight! Where's the merit in that? Given the sight be fine enough (a thing that I pray may not admit of doubt in the case of Helena), it is no exploit; it is rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve the great. But unless the sight of a figure a hundred yards away--and of a back fifty--is to count against me as a practical inspection, I am so supremely lucky as never to have seen her! I have made her for myself--a few tags of description, a noting of the effect on Roger and on Cromlech, mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided my work, I admit--but for the most part and in all essentials, she, as I love her (for of course I love her, or no amount of Feast of St. John Baptist should have moved me from my path--take that for literal or for metaphorical as ye will!)--is of my own craftsmanship--work of my heart and brain, wrought just as I would have her--as I knew, through all delightful wanderings, that some day she must come to me.
"Think then of my mood for to-morrow! With what feelings do I ring the bell (unless perchance it be a knocker)! With what sensations accost the butler! With what emotions enter the presence! Because if by chance I am wrong--! Upon which awful doubt arises the question whether, if I be wrong, I can go back. I am plaguily the slave of putting the thing as prettily as it can be put (Thanks, Cromlech, for giving me the adverb--not so bad a touch for a Man of Tombs!), and, on my soul, I have put that homage of mine so prettily that one who was prudent would have addressed it to none other than a married lady--_vivente marito_, be it understood. But from my goddess her mortal mate is gone--and to explain--nay, not to explain (which would indeed tax every grace of style)--but to let it appear that the homage lingers, abides, and is confined within the letter of the bond--that would seem scarce 'knightly.' Therefore, being (as all tell me) more of a fool than most men, and (as I soberly hope) not less of a gentleman, I stand thus. I love the Image I have made out of dim distant sight, prosaic shreds of catalogued description, a vividly creating mind, and--to be candid--the absolute necessity of amusing myself in the country. But the Woman I am to see to-morrow? Is she the Image? I shall know in the first moment of our encounter. If she is, all is well for me--for her it will be just a question of her dower of heavenly venturousness. If she is not--in my humble judgment, you, Ambrose Caverly, having put the thing with so excessive a prettiness, shall for your art's sake perish--you must, in short, if you would end this thing in the manner (creditable to yourself, Ambrose!) in which it has hitherto been conducted, willy-nilly, hot or cold, confirmed in divine dreams or slapped in the face by disenchanting fact--within a brief space of time, propose marriage to this lady. If there be any other course, the gods send me scent of it this night! But if she should refuse? Reckon not on that. For the more she fall short of her Image, the more will she grasp at an outward showing of triumph--and the greatest outward triumph would not be in refusal.