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| Orchids at Kew, photo by Syd Cross |
Nevertheless, when he saw
Katharine among the orchids, her beauty strangely emphasized by the fantastic
plants, which seemed to peer and gape at her from striped hoods and fleshy
throats, his ardor for botany waned, and a more complex feeling replaced it.
She fell silent. The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections. In
defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved hand and touched one. The
sight of the rubies upon her finger affected him so disagreeably that he
started and turned away. But next moment he controlled himself; he looked at
her taking in one strange shape after another with the contemplative,
considering gaze of a person who sees not exactly what is before him, but
gropes in regions that lie beyond it. The far–away look entirely lacked
self–consciousness. Denham doubted whether she remembered his presence. He
could recall himself, of course, by a word or a movement—but why? She was
happier thus. She needed nothing that he could give her. And for him, too,
perhaps, it was best to keep aloof, only to know that she existed, to preserve
what he already had—perfect, remote, and unbroken.
Night and Day (331-2)
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