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She looked up at him as if she were going to speak, but checked herself, and glanced away. The ship was plunging heavily, and the livid waves were racing before the wind. The horizon was lit with a yellow brightness in the quarter to which she turned, and a pallid gleam defined her profile.
His head was beautifully shaped, the line of its profile front, top, and back being perfect in intellectuality, strength and symmetry. He was rather under the medium height, about the same height as Mildred herself.
They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys and walks of the garden. Augustine, with his blue eyes and golden hair, his ethereally flexible form and vivacious features; and Alfred, dark-eyed, with haughty Roman profile, firmly-knit limbs, and decided bearing.
These were the gentle stimulants to his most virile expression. Nor did his pictures ever contain more; they never struggled beyond the quality of legend, at least as I know them. He knew the loveliness in a profile, he saw always the evanescences of light upon light and purposeless things.
Harrison looked sidewise at the flushed, delicate profile. "Well, I suppose you'll keep on writing them," he said encouragingly. "No, I shall never try to write a story again," declared Anne, with the hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face. "I wouldn't give up altogether," said Mr. Harrison reflectively.
The intuitive process can suffice for an invention of short duration: a rhyme, a story, a profile, a motif, an ornamental stroke, a little mechanical contrivance, etc. But as soon as the work requires time and development the discursive process becomes absolutely necessary: with many inventors one easily perceives the change from one form to the other.
Colonel Dewes could now see the profile of his face. A firm chin, a beauty of outline not very common, a certain delicacy of feature and colour gave to him a distinction of which Sybil Linforth might well be proud. "He'll be a dangerous fellow among the girls in a few years' time," said Dewes, turning to the mother. But Sybil did not hear the words. She was standing with her head thrust forward.
She had opened the door on Emma sitting at the piano in her blue and buff check ribbon-knotted stuff dress. Miriam had expected her to turn her head and stop playing. But as, arms full, she closed the door with her shoulders, the child's profile remained unconcerned.
Then there was a scattering of middle-aged leaves whose forms when viewed in profile in their revealing gowns were beginning to be faintly unsymmetrical. These carried thick volumes of Thomas Aquinas and Henry James and Cardinal Mercier and Immanuel Kant and many bulging note-books filled with lecture data.
Few drivers cared for the honour of taking him over the road. A mysterious man he was, who 'carried the profile of the line in his head, and, more than that, knew intimately the possibilities of back country which he had never seen nor travelled over. There is always one such man on every line.
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