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    Chapter 20
    Previous Chapter
    It is not pleasant when you have had your say, made your point to your
    own satisfaction, and gone cheerfully on to some fresh subject, to be
    assailed with the suspicion that your interlocutor is saying mentally:
    All very well--very pretty talk, no doubt, but you haven't convinced
    me, and I even doubt that you have succeeded in convincing yourself!

    For example, a reader of the foregoing notes may say: "If you really
    find all this beauty and charm and fascination you tell us in some
    little girls, you must love them. You can't admire and take delight in
    them as you can in a piece of furniture, or tapestry, or a picture or
    statue or a stone of great brilliancy and purity of colour, or in any
    beautiful inanimate object, without that emotion coming in to make
    itself part of and one with your admiration. You can't, simply because
    a child is a human being, and we do not want to lose sight of the being
    we love. So long as the love lasts, the eye would follow its steps
    because--we are what we are, and a mere image in the mind doesn't
    satisfy the heart. Love is never satisfied, and asks not for less and
    less each day but for more--always for more. Then, too, love is
    credulous; it believes and imagines all things and, like all emotions,
    it pushes reason and experience aside and sticks to the belief that
    these beautiful qualities cannot die and leave nothing behind: they are
    not on the surface only; they have their sweet permanent roots in the
    very heart and centre of being."

    That, I suppose, is the best argument on the other side, and if you
    look straight at it for six seconds, you will see it dissolve like a
    lump of sugar in a tumbler of water and disappear under your very eyes.
    For the fact remains that when I listen to the receding footsteps of my
    little charmer, the sigh that escapes me expresses something of relief
    as well as regret. The signs of change have perhaps not yet appeared,
    and I wish not to see them. Good-bye, little one, we part in good time,
    and may we never meet again! Undoubtedly one loses something, but it
    cannot balance the gain. The loss in any case was bound to come, and
    had I waited for it no gain would have been possible. As it is, I am
    like that man in _The Pilgrim's Progress_, by some accounted mad,
    who the more he cast away the more he had. And the way of it is this;
    by losing my little charmers before they cease from charming, I make
    them mine for always, in a sense. They are made mine because my mind
    (other minds, too) is made that way. That which I see with delight I
    continue to see when it is no more there, and will go on seeing to the
    end: at all events I fail to detect any sign of decay or fading in
    these mind pictures. There are people with money who collect gems--
    diamonds, rubies and other precious stones--who value their treasures
    as their best possessions, and take them out from time to time to
    examine and gloat over them. These things are trash to me compared with
    the shining, fadeless images in my mind, which are my treasures and
    best possessions. But the bright and beauteous images of the little
    girl charmers would not have been mine if instead of letting the
    originals disappear from my ken I had kept them too long in it. All
    because our minds, our memories are made like that. If we see a thing
    once, or several times, we see it ever after as we first saw it; if we
    go on seeing it every day or every week for years and years, we do not
    register a countless series of new distinct impressions, recording all
    its changes: the new impressions fall upon and obliterate the others,
    and it is like a series of photographs, not arranged side by side for
    future inspection, but in a pile, the top one alone remaining visible.
    Looking at this insipid face you would not believe, if told, that once
    upon a time it was beautiful to you and had a great charm. The early
    impressions are lost, the charm forgotten.

    This reminds me of the incident I set out to narrate when I wrote
    "Dimples" at the head of this note. I was standing at a busy corner in
    a Kensington thoroughfare waiting for a bus, when a group of three
    ladies appeared and came to a stand a yard or two from me and waited,
    too, for the traffic to pass before attempting to cross to the other
    side. One was elderly and feeble and was holding the arm of another of
    the trio, who was young and pretty. Her age was perhaps twenty; she was
    of medium height, slim, with a nice figure and nicely dressed. She was
    a blonde, with light blue-grey eyes and fluffy hair of pale gold: there
    was little colour in her face, but the features were perfect and the
    mouth with its delicate curves quite beautiful.

    But after regarding her attentively for a minute or so, looking out
    impatiently for my bus at the same time, I said mentally: "Yes, you are
    certainly very pretty, perhaps beautiful, but I don't like you and I
    don't want you. There's nothing in you to correspond to that nice
    outside. You are an exception to the rule that the beautiful is the
    good. Not that you are bad--actively, deliberately bad--you haven't the
    strength to be that or anything else; you have only a little shallow
    mind and a little coldish heart."

    Now I can imagine one of my lady readers crying out: "How dared you say
    such monstrous things of any person after just a glance at her face?"

    Listen to me, madam, and you will agree that I was not to blame for
    saying these monstrous things. All my life I've had the instinct or
    habit of seeing the things I see; that is to say, seeing them not as
    cloud or mist-shapes for ever floating past, nor as people in endless
    procession "seen rather than distinguished," but distinctly,
    separately, as individuals each with a character and soul of its very
    own; and while seeing it in that way some little unnamed faculty in
    some obscure corner of my brain hastily scribbles a label to stick on
    to the object or person before it passes out of sight. It can't be
    prevented; it goes on automatically; it isn't _me_, and I can no
    more interfere or attempt in any way to restrain or regulate its action
    than I can take my legs to task for running up a flight of steps
    without the mind's supervision.

    But I haven't finished with the young lady yet. I had no sooner said
    what I have said and was just about to turn my eyes away and forget all
    about her, when, in response to some remarks of her aged companion, she
    laughed, and in laughing so great a change came into her face that it
    was as if she had been transformed into another being. It was like a
    sudden breath of wind and a sunbeam falling on the still cold surface
    of a woodland pool. The eyes, icily cold a moment before, had warm
    sunlight in them, and the half-parted lips with a flash of white teeth
    between them had gotten a new beauty; and most remarkable of all was a
    dimple which appeared and in its swift motions seemed to have a life of
    its own, flitting about the corner of the mouth, then further away to
    the middle of the cheek and back again. A dimple that had a story to
    tell. For dimples, too, like a delicate, mobile mouth, and even like
    eyes, have a character of their own. And no sooner had I seen that
    sudden change in the expression, and especially the dimple, than I knew
    the face; it was a face I was familiar with and was like no other face
    in the world, yet I could not say who she was nor where and when I had
    known her! Then, when the smile faded and the dimple vanished, she was
    a stranger again--the pretty young person with the shallow brain that I
    did not like!

    Naturally my mind worried itself with this puzzle of a being with two
    distinct expressions, one strange to me, the other familiar, and it
    went on worrying me all that day until I could stand it no longer, and
    to get rid of the matter, I set up the theory (which didn't quite
    convince me) that the momentary expression I had seen was like an
    expression in some one I had known in the far past. But after
    dismissing the subject in that way, the subconscious mind was still no
    doubt working at it, for two days later it all at once flashed into my
    mind that my mysterious young lady was no other than the little Lillian
    I had known so well eight years before! She was ten years old when I
    first knew her, and I was quite intimately acquainted with her for a
    little over a year, and greatly admired her for her beauty and charm,
    especially when she smiled and that dimple flew about the corner of her
    mouth like a twilight moth vaguely fluttering at the rim of a red
    flower. But alas! her charm was waning: she was surrounded by relations
    who adored her, and was intensely self-conscious, so that when after a
    year her people moved to a new district, I was not sorry to break the
    connection, and to forget all about her.

    Now that I had seen and remembered her again, it was a consolation to
    think that she was already in her decline when I first knew and was
    attracted by her and on that account had never wholly lost my heart to
    her. How different my feelings would have been if after pronouncing
    that irrevocable judgment, I had recognised one of my vanished
    darlings--one, say, like that child on Cromer Beach, or of dozens of
    other fairylike little ones I have known and loved, and whose images
    are enduring and sacred!
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    Chapter 20
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