warmer. "How beautiful is this hour! Look yonder, the sun's
rays still upon those immortal hills--that lone grey tower amongst the
far plains--the pines around--hearken to their sighing! These are indeed
the scenes of the Dryad and the Faun. These are scenes where we could
melt our whole nature down to love: Nature never meant us for the stern
and arid destinies we fulfil. Look round, Constance, in every leaf of
her gorgeous book, how glowingly is written the one sentence, 'Love and
be happy!' You answer not; to these thoughts you are cold."

"They breathe too much of the Epicurean and his roseleaves for me,"
answered Constance, smilingly. "I love better that stern old tower,
telling of glorious strife and great deeds, than all the softer
landscape, on which the present debasement of the south seems written."

"You and your English," said Godolphin, somewhat bitterly, "prate of the
debasement of my poor Italians in a jargon that I confess almost enrages
me. (Constance coloured and bit her lip.) Debasement! why debasement?
They enjoy themselves: they take from life its just moral; they do not
affect the more violent crimes; they feel their mortality, follow
its common ends, are frivolous, contented, and die! Well; this is
debasement. Be it so. But for what would you exchange it? The hard,
cold, ferocious guilt of ancient Rome; the detestable hypocrisy, the
secret villiany, fraud, murder, that stamped republican Venice? The
days of glory that you lament are the days of the darkest guilt; and man
shudders when he reads what the fair moralisers over the soft and idle
Italy sigh to recall!"

"You are severe," said Constance, with a pained voice. "Forgive me,
dearest; but you are often severe on my feelings."

Constance was silent; the magic of the sunset was gone; they walked back
to the house, thoughtful, and somewhat cooled towards each other.

Another day, on which the rain forbade them to stir from home,
Godolphin, after he had remained long silent and meditating, said to
Constance, who was busy writing letters to her political friends, in
which, avoiding Italy and love, the scheming countess dwelt only on busy
England and its eternal politics:

"Will you read to me, dear Constance? my spirits are sad to-day; the
weather affects them."

Constance laid aside her letters, and took up one of the many books that
strewed the table: it was a volume of one of our most popular poets.

"I hate poetry," said Godolphin, lan