"Momoro," the poet repeated. "Momoro. Yes; it ought to be that. She hasn't come in here. You'd see her instantly, if she were here, crowded as the place is. Over the dead level of these people you'd see her as you see the Nike of Samothrace."
"That's too robust a comparison," his friend objected, "too robust and too active. Madame Momoro suggests power with less amplitude, less motion. She's painted almost as a still-life. Wouldn't you agree there's more of that about her than of the Nike, Laurence?"
"Probably," Ogle answered, a little embarrassed because he knew the statue only through small reproductions in plaster. "Less robustness, as you say, Albert. More reserve and yet a vibration. A vibrating reserve."
Macklyn deepened his habitual frown. "I didn't say she was like the Victory," he explained. "I said you couldn't help seeing her if she were here any more than you could help seeing that figure when you go into the Louvre. She must be a glorious sight in a ball gown. To me she seems carved out of an Hellenic stillness." Here, as he spoke, his frown was relaxed as if by some pleasing discovery, and he repeated the phrase slowly: "An Hellenic stillness.
