ame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died
away.

"Yes, I should like just once to see her. She is very clever, is she
not?"

"Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty
airs to pretty words."

Leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face.

"Does she? Ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music
another has written."

"I do not think so," he replied. "If you are thinking of Lady Marion in
comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight
and sunlight, water and wine. She has the grace and calm of repose. You
have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. She quiets
a man's heart. You stir every pulse in it. She soothes one into
forgetfulness of life. You brace and animate and brighten. You cannot
compare the two characters, because they are quite different. You are
smiling. What amuses you?"

"Nothing. I was not amused, Lord Chandos. I was thinking, and the
thought I smiled over was not amusing."

"What was it?"

"I was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace,
gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. I read some lines yesterday
that have haunted me ever since. Shall I repeat them to you?"

"It is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "I
shall be only too delighted."

Her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always
did under the influence of noble words. Her voice was sweeter than that
of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener
as she recited this little poem:

"While roses are so red,
While lilies are so white,
Shall a woman exalt her face
Because it gives delight?
She's not so sweet as a rose,
A lily is straighter than she,
And if she were as red or white,
She'd be but one of three.

"Whether she flush in love's summer,
Or in its winter grow pale,
Whether she flaunt her beauty,
Or hide it in a veil;
Be she red or white,
And stand she erect or bowed,
Time will win the race he runs with her,
And hide her away in a shroud."

"Those words took my fancy, Lord Chandos," continued Leone; "they are so
true, so terribly true. All grace and beauty will be hidden away some
day in a shroud."

"There will be no shroud for the soul," he said.

She rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh.

"That is true. After all, nothing matters, death end