“Ye gods, what a pedigree!” said Shelley.

The young man called again, and after explaining his situation was advised to go back home and make peace with his wife and father at any cost of personal intellectual qualms.  Philosophy was all right; but life was one thing and philosophy another.  Live with Harriet as he had vowed to do—­love was a good deal glamour, anyway; write poetry, of course, if he felt like it, but keep it to himself.  The world was not to be moved by enthusiastic youth.  Godwin had tried it—­he had been an enthusiastic youth himself, and that was why he now lived in Somerstown instead of Piccadilly.  Move in the line of least resistance.

Shelley went away shocked and stunned.  Going by Old Saint Pancras Church he turned back to step in a moment and recover his scattered senses.  He walked through the cool, dim, old building, out into the churchyard, where toppling moss-covered gray slabs marked the resting-places of the sleeping dead.  All seemed so cool and quiet and calm there!  The dead are at rest:  they have no vexatious problems.

A few people were moving about, carelessly reading the inscriptions.  The young man unconsciously followed their example; he passed slowly along one of the walks, scanning the stones.  His eye fell upon the word “Wollstonecraft,” marked on a plain little slate slab.  He paused and, leaning over removed his hat and read, and then glancing just beyond, saw seated on the grass—­the tall girl.  She held a book in her hands, but she was looking at him very soberly.  Their eyes met, and they smiled just a little.  The young man sat down on the turf on the other side of the grave from the girl, and they talked of the woman by whose dust they watched:  and the young man found that the tall girl was an Ancestor-Worshiper and a mystic, and moreover had a flight of soul that held him in awe.  Besides, in form and feature, she was rarely beautiful.  She was quiet, but she could talk.

The next day, as Percy Shelley strolled through the churchyard of Old Saint Pancras, the tall girl was there again with her book, in the same place.

* * * * *

When Shelley made that first call at the Godwins he was twenty.  The three girls he met were fifteen, sixteen and seventeen, respectively.  Mary being the youngest in years, but the most mature, she would have easily passed for the oldest.  Now, all three of these girls were dazzled by the beauty and grace and intellect of the strange, pale-faced visitor.

He came to the house again and again during the next few months.  All the girls loved him violently, for that’s the way girls under eighteen often love.  Mr. Godwin soon discovered the fact that all his girls loved Shelley.  They lost appetite, and were alternately in chills of fear and fevers of ecstacy.  Mr. Godwin, being a kind man and a good, took occasion to explain to them that Mr. Shelley was a married man, and although it was true he did not live on good terms with his wife, yet she was his lawful wife, and marriage was a sacred obligation:  of course, pure philosophy or poetic justice took a different view, but in society the marriage-tie must not be held lightly.  In short, Shelley was married and that was all there was about it.