Pope’s forehead in the darkness). “What a weight of genius lives in it! What wit, wisdom, and truth⁠—what a wealth of all those jewels, indeed, for which people are ready to barter their lives! Yours is the only light that burns forever. But for you the human pilgrimage would be performed in utter darkness”; (here the coach gave a great lurch as it fell into a rut in Park Lane) “without genius we should be upset and undone. Most august, most lucid of beams”⁠—thus she was apostrophizing the hump on the cushion when they drove beneath one of the street lamps in Berkeley Square and she realized her mistake. Mr. Pope had a forehead no bigger than another man’s. “Wretched man,” she thought, “how you have deceived me! I took that hump for your forehead. When one sees you plain, how ignoble, how despicable you are! Deformed and weakly, there is nothing to venerate in you, much to pity, most to despise.”

Again they were in darkness and her anger became modified directly she could see nothing but the poet’s knees.