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ly as difficult to determine as in what colours she will look her best。
So； I say； I plied my brains in vain for that becoming fault。 It was the same whether I considered her beauty； her heart； or her mind。 A charming old Italian writer has laid down the canons of perfect feminine beauty with much nicety in a delicious discourse； which； as he delivered it in a sixteenth… century Florentine garden to an audience of beautiful and noble ladies； an audience not too large to be intimate and not too small to be embarrassing； it was his delightful good fortune and privilege to illustrate by pretty and sly references to the characteristic beauties of the several ladies seated like a ring of roses around him。 Thus he would refer to the shape of Madonna Lampiada's sumptuous eyelids； and to her shell…like ears； to the correct length and shape of Madonna Amororrisca's nose； to the lily tower of Madonna Verdespina's throat； nor would the unabashed old Florentine shrink from calling attention to the unfairness of Madonna Selvaggia's covering up her dainty bosom； just as he was about to discourse upon 〃those two hills of snow and of roses with two little crowns of fine rubies on their peaks。 〃How could a man lecture if his diagrams were going to behave like that！ Then； feigning a tiff； he would close his manuscript； and all the ladies with their birdlike voices would beseech him with 〃Oh； no； Messer Firenzuola； please go on again； it's SO charming！〃 while； as if by accident； Madonna Selvaggia's moonlike bosom would once more slip out its heavenly silver； perceiving which； Messer Firenzuola would open his manuscript again and proceed with his sweet learning。
Happy Firenzuola！ Oh； days that are no more！
By selecting for his illustrations one feature from one lady and another from another； Messer Firenzuola builds up an ideal of the Beautiful Woman； which； were she to be possible； would probably be as faultily faultless as the Perfect Woman； were she possible。
Moreover； much about the same time as Firenzuola was writing； Botticelli's blonde； angular； retrousse women were breaking every one of that beauty… master's canons； perfect in beauty none the less； and lovers then； and perhaps particularly now； have found the perfect beauty in faces to which Messer Firenzuola would have denied the name of face at all； by virtue of a quality which indeed he has tabulated； but which is far too elusive and undefinable； too spiritual for him truly to have understood；a quality which nowadays we are tardily recognising as the first and last of all beauty； either of nature or art；the supreme； truly divine； because materialistically unaccountable； quality of Charm！
〃Beauty that makes holy earth and heaven May have faults from head to feet。〃
O loveliest and best…loved face that ever hallowed the eyes that now seek for you in vain！ Such was your strange lunar magic； such the light not even death could dim。 And such may be the loveliest and best… loved face for you who are reading these pages；faces little understood on earth because they belong to heaven。
There is indeed only one law of beauty on which we may rely；that it invariably breaks all the laws laid down for it by the professors of aesthetics。 All the beauty that has ever been in the world has broken the laws of all previous beauty； and unwillingly dictated laws to the beauty that succeeded it；laws which that beauty has no less spiritedly broken； to prove in turn dictator to its successor。
The immortal sculptors； painters； and poets have always done exactly what their critics forbade them to do。 The obedient in art are always the forgotten。
Likewise beautiful women have always been a law unto themselves。 Who could have prophesied in what way any of these inspired law…breakers would break the law； what new type of perfect imperfection they would create？
So we return to the Perfect Woman； having gained this much knowledge of her；that her perfection is nothing more or less than her unique； individual； charming imperfection； and that she is simply the woman we love and who is fool enough to love us。
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR ANTICIPATES DISCONTENT ON THE PART OF HIS READER
〃But come；〃 I imagine some reader complaining； 〃isn't it high time for something to happen？〃 No doubt it is； but what am I to do？ I am no less discontented。 Is it not even more to my interest than to the reader's for something to happen？ Here have I been tramping along since breakfast…time； and now it is late in the afternoon； but never a feather of her dove's wings； never a flutter of her angel's robes have I seen。 It is disheartening； for one naturally expects to find anything we seek a few minutes after starting out to seek it； and I confess that I expected to find my golden mistress within a very few hours of leaving home。 However； had that been the case； there would have been no story； as the novelists say； and I trust； as he goes on； the reader may feel with me that that would have been a pity。 Besides； with that prevision given to an author； I am strongly of opinion that something will happen before long。 And if the worst comes to the worst； there is always that story of my First Love wherewith to fill the time。 Meanwhile I am approaching a decorative old Surrey town； little more than a cluster of ripe old inns； to one of which I have much pleasure in inviting the reader to dinner。
CHAPTER VII
PRANDIAL
Dinner！
Is there a more beautiful word in the language？
Dinner！
Let the beautiful word come as a refrain to and fro this chapter。
Dinner！
Just eating and drinking； nothing more； but so much！
Drinking； indeed； has had its laureates。 Yet would I offer my mite of prose in its honour。 And when I say 〃drinking；〃 I speak not of smuggled gin or of brandy bottles held fiercely by the neck till they are empty。
Nay； but of that lonely glass in the social solitude of the tavern；alone； but not alone； for the glass is sure to bring a dream to bear it company； and it is a poor dream that cannot raise a song。 And what greater felicity than to be alone in a tavern with your last new song； just born and yet still a tingling part of you。
Drinking has indeed been sung； but why； I have heard it asked； have we no 〃Eating Songs？〃for eating is； surely； a fine pleasure。 Many practise it already； and it is becoming more general every day。
I speak not of the finicking joy of the gourmet； but the joy of an honest appetite in ecstasy； the elemental joy of absorbing quantities of fresh simple food；mere roast lamb； new potatoes； and peas of living green。
It is； indeed； an absorbing pleasure。 It needs all our attention。 You must eat as you kiss； so exacting are the joys of the mouth；talking； for example。 The quiet eye may be allowed to participate； and sometimes the ear； where the music is played upon a violin； and that a Stradivarius。 A well…kept lawn； with six…hundred…years…old cedars and a twenty…feet yew hedge； will add distinction to the meal。 Nor should one ever eat without a seventeenth…century poet in an old yellow…leaved edition upon the table； not to be read； of course； any more than the flowers are to be eaten； but just to make music of association very softly to our thoughts。
Some diners have wine too upon the table； and in the pauses of thinking what a divine mystery dinner is； they eat。
For dinner IS a mystery；a mystery of which even the greatest chef knows but little； as a poet knows not；
〃with all his lore； Wherefore he sang； or whence the mandate sped。〃
〃Even our digestion is governed by angels；〃 said Blake； and if you will resist the trivial inclination to substitute 〃bad angels；〃 is there really any greater mystery than the process by which beef is turned into brains； and beer into beauty？ Every beautiful woman we see has been made out of beefsteaks。 It is a solemn thought；and the finest poem that was ever written came out of a grey pulpy mass such as we make brain sauce of。
And with these grave thoughts for grace let us sit down to dinner。
Dinner！
CHAPTER VIII
STILL PRANDIAL
What wine shall we have？ I confess I am no judge of wines； except when they are bad。 To…night I feel inclined to allow my choice to be directed by sentiment； and as we are on so pretty a pilgrimage； would it not be appropriate to drink Liebfraumilch？
Hock is full of fancy； and all wines are by their very nature full of reminiscence； the golden tears and red blood of summers that are gone。
Forgive me； therefore； if I grow reminiscent。 Indeed； I fear that the hour for the story of my First Love has come。 But first； notice the waitress。 I confess； whether beautiful or plain；not too plain；women who earn their own living have a peculiar attraction for me。
I hope the Golden Girl will not turn out to be a duchess。 As old Campion sings；
〃I care not for those ladies Who must be wooed and prayed； Give me kind Amaryllis； The wanton country…maid。〃
Town…maids too of the same pattern。 Whether in town or country； give me the girls that work。 The Girls That Work！ But evidently it is high time woe began a new chapter。
CHAPTER IX
THE LEGEND OF HEBE； OR THE HEAVENLY HOUSEMAID
Yes； I blush t