“But he may succeed yet,” said Mr. Kenyon.  “He is not old.”

“Oh, of course, such genius must some day be recognized.  But he may be gone then—­how old did you say he was?”

Mr. Kenyon had not said; but he now explained that Mr. Browning was thirty-four, that is to say, just the age of himself, ahem!  Furthermore, Mr. Browning did not live in Italy—­that is, not now, for at that present moment he was in London.  In fact, Mr. Kenyon had lunched with him an hour before.  They had talked of Miss Barrett (for who else was there among women worth talking of!) and Mr. Browning had expressed a wish to see her.  Mr. Kenyon had expressed a wish that Mr. Browning should see her, and now if Miss Barrett would express a wish that Mr. Browning should call and see her, why, Mr. Kenyon would fetch him—­doctors or no doctors.

And he fetched him.

And I’m glad, aren’t you?

Now Robert Browning was not at all of the typical poet type.  In stature, he was rather short; his frame was compact and muscular.  In his youth, he had been a wrestler—­carrying away laurels of a different sort from those which he was to wear later.  His features were inclined to be heavy; in repose his face was dull, and there was no fire in his glance.  He wore loose-fitting, plain, gray clothes, a slouch-hat and thick-soled shoes.  At first look you would have said he was a well-fed, well-to-do country squire.  On closer acquaintance you would have been impressed with his dignity, his perfect poise and his fine reserve.  And did you come to know him well enough you would have seen that beneath that seemingly phlegmatic outside there was a spiritual nature so sensitive and tender that it responded to all the finer thrills that play across the souls of men.  Yet if there ever was a man who did not wear his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at, it was Robert Browning.  He was clean, wholesome, manly, healthy, inside and out.  He was master of self.

Of course, the gentle reader is sure that the next act will show a tender love-scene.  And were I dealing with the lives of Peter Smith and Martha the milkmaid, the gentle reader might be right.

But the love of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett is an instance of the Divine Passion.  Take off thy shoes, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground!  This man and woman had gotten well beyond the first flush of youth; there was a joining of intellect and soul which approaches the ideal.  I can not imagine anything so preposterous as a “proposal” passing between them; I can not conceive a condition of hesitancy and timidity leading up to a dam-bursting “avowal.”  They met, looked into each other’s eyes, and each there read his fate:  no coyness, no affectation, no fencing—­they loved.  Each at once felt a heart-rest in the other.  Each had at last found the other self.

That exquisite series of poems, “Sonnets From the Portuguese,” written by Elizabeth Barrett before her marriage and presented to her husband afterward, was all told to him over and over by the look from her eyes, the pressure of her hands, and in gentle words (or silence) that knew neither shame nor embarrassment.