Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen onto a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.
'Courage!' cried her companion, now standing some six feet above. 'Courage and love.'
She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into the view, and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems, collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed to water the earth.
Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man. But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.
A Room with a View, E. M. Forster
