The face was smiling, a smile of great peace, and also of a strange cunning.

One other characteristic it had: the woman looked as though at any moment she would suddenly open her eyes, and if you turned away from her and looked again, she seemed to be smiling to herself because she had opened them that moment behind your back, and just closed them again in time.
It was a face that never changed and yet was always changing.
She looked doubly strange in the evening light, and her smile softened and deepened as the shadows gathered in the room.
Antony came and stood in front of her.
"Silencieux," he whispered, "I love you, Silencieux.

Smiling Silence, I love you.

All day long on the moors your smile has stolen like a moonbeam by my side--" As he spoke, from far down the wood came the gentle sound of a woman's voice calling "Antony," and coming nearer as it called.
With a shade of impatience, Antony bent nearer to the image and kissed it.
"Good-bye, Silencieux," he whispered, "Good-bye, until the rising of the moon." Then he passed out on to the little staircase that led down into the wood, and called back to the approaching voice: "I am coming, Beatrice,"-- 'Beatrice' being the name of his wife.
As he called, a shaft of late sunlight suddenly irradiated the tall slim form of a woman coming up the wood.

She wore no hat, and the sun made a misty glory of her pale gold hair.