Page 243 - of-human-bondage-

He made a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave
it passion and magic, and the stars added poetry, and the
old vicarage garden was a fit and exquisite setting. There
was something Meredithian about it: it was not quite Lucy
Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was inex-
pressibly charming. Philip’s heart beat quickly. He was so
delighted with his fancies that he began thinking of them
again as soon as he crawled back, dripping and cold, into
his bathing-machine. He thought of the object of his affec-
tions. She had the most adorable little nose and large brown
eyes—he would describe her to Hayward—and masses of
soft brown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your
face in, and a skin which was like ivory and sunshine, and
her cheek was like a red, red rose. How old was she? Eigh-
teen perhaps, and he called her Musette. Her laughter was
like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, it
was the sweetest music he had ever heard.
‘What ARE you thinking about?’
Philip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home.
‘I’ve been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You
ARE absent-minded.’
Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing
at his surprise.
‘I thought I’d come and meet you.’
‘That’s awfully nice of you,’ he said.
‘Did I startle you?’
‘You did a bit,’ he admitted.
He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were
eight pages of it.

Of Human Bondage