the lethargy of long-held wealth has yet to
come.

In the library of an imposing, but new, grey stone mansion on Chicago's
Lake Shore Drive two women were dawdling together over Petrarch's
"Canzoniere" in the original. A well-thumbed dictionary was in the lap
of one, and by the other's side lay Volume IV. of Symond's "Renaissance
in Italy." It was cold January, and the broad, low window showed the
angry lake dashing against the great sea wall and splashing the
sparkling spray far over the roadway. The moaning north wind furiously
rattled the long casements and sent occasional puffs of smoke and
cinders out from the brightly blazing hearth fire; but these outward
signs of winter were unable to affect the inviting coziness of the
apartment. Fortunately the decorator's work had stopped at the walls;
so, although artistically arranged, it was also a room to live in.
Though the chairs were carved to match the panels, they were
also--pardon the term--sittable; and though the bindings on the low
book-shelves blended well with the tapestries and rugs, the books
themselves were readable. The same judgment which had chosen the books
had selected bronzes and porcelain, tiles and tapestries, and the
tasteful arrangement of the art objects at once bespoke the dilettante.

The elder student of Italian lyrics, glancing up from the "Rime in vita
e morte" said interrogatively to her friend: "I wish I knew, Florence,
whether Madonna Laura were once a living woman or merely the divine
creation of the poet's soul."

"I am sure she must have been a fancy," the other replied. "She is too
ideal for flesh and blood, and besides, she was married. I don't think
it is natural for any man so sincerely to love another man's wife."

"You horrid girl! You forget that Petrarch was a poet."

"No, I don't, my dear Marion; but so were Shelley, Byron, de Musset, and
scores of others. The same broad collar and velvet jacket often cover
both an artistic temperament and a fleshly nature. Now I, for one, don't
believe in pardoning in genius what we condemn in mediocrity. If Laura
was an inspiration of Petrarch's soul, the poet has my admiration; if
she was merely another man's wife with whom he was enamored,--no matter
how delightfully he may have sung of her,--I lose respect for
Petrarch."

"You have no appreciation of the beautiful, Florence."

"I appreciate the beautiful, but I also respect virtue. There is enough
that is beautiful in this world b