In the swayed crowd upon her husband's arm,

One opera night, the centre of all eyes,

So proud she seemed, so fair, so sweet, so wise.

Some one behind me whispered "Lady L.!

His Lordship too! and thereby hangs a tale."

His Lordship! I beheld a placid man,

With gentle deep-set eyes, and rather wan,

And rather withered, yet on whose smooth face

Time seemed to have been in doubt what lines to trace

20

Of youth or age, and so had left it bare,

As it had left its colour to his hair.

An old young man perhaps, or really old,

Which of the two could never quite be told.

I judged him younger than his years gave right:

His looks betrayed him least by candlelight.

Yet, young or old, that night he seemed to me

Sublime, the priest of her divinity

At whose new shrine I worshipped. But enough

Of me and my concerns! More pertinent stuff

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