it
would weary all but lovers to dwell, and lovers for the most part
find their own matters sufficient food for pondering. Tom was busy
with the rehearsals at the Coliseum, and I, being left alone, had
little taste for the _Materia Medica_. On Sundays only did I see
Claire; for this Mrs. Luttrell had stipulated, and my love, too, most
mysteriously professed herself busy during the week. As for me, it
was clear that before marriage could be talked of I must at least
have gained my diplomas, so that the more work I did during the week
the better. The result of this was a goodly sowing of resolutions
and very little harvest. In the evenings, Tom and I would sit
together--he tirelessly polishing and pruning the tragedy, and I for
the most part smoking and giving advice which I am bound to say in
duty to the author ("Francesca" having gained some considerable fame
since those days) was invariably rejected.

Tom had been growing silent and moody of late--a change for which I
could find no cause. He would answer my questions at random, pause
in his work to gaze long and intently on the ceiling, and altogether
behave in ways unaccountable and strange. The play had been written
at white-hot speed: the corrections proceeded at a snail's pace.
The author had also fallen into a habit of bolting his meals in
silence, and, when rebuked, of slowly bringing his eyes to bear upon
me as a person whose presence was until the moment unsuspected.
All this I saw in mild wonder, but I reflected on certain moods of my
own of late, and held my peace.

The explanation came without my seeking. We were seated together one
evening, he over his everlasting corrections, and I in some
especially herbaceous nook of the _Materia Medica_, when Tom looked
up and said--

"Jasper, I want your opinion on a passage. Listen to this."

Sick of my flowery solitude, I gave him my attention while he read:--

"She is no violet to veil and hide
Before the lusty sun, but as the flower,
His best-named bride, that leaneth to the light
And images his look of lordly love--
Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queen
Than he a king; and whoso looks must kneel
And worship, conscious of a Sovranty
Undreamt in nature, save it be the Heaven
That minist'ring to all is queen of all,
And wears the proud sun's self but as a gem
To grace her girdle, one among the stars.
Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca H