“The second kiss, ah God!  I feel it yet,—­
   And evermore my soul will loathe the same,—­
   The toys and joys of fate I may forget,
   But not the touch of that divided shame;
   It clove my lips—­it burnt me like a flame.

  “The third, the final kiss, is one I use
   Morning and noon and night, and not amiss. 
   Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse! 
   And when I die, be Love enrapt in bliss
   Re-sanctified in heaven by such a kiss!”

This little gem, which I read and re-read with pleasure, was only one of many in the same collection, The author was assuredly a man of genius.  I studied his word-melodies with intense interest, and noted with some surprise how original and beautiful were many of his fancies and similes.  I say I noted them with surprise, because he was evidently a modern Englishman, and yet unlike any other of his writing species.  His name was not Alfred Tennyson, nor Edwin Arnold, nor Matthew Arnold, nor Austin Dobson, nor Martin Tupper.  He was neither plagiarist nor translator—­he was actually an original man.  I do not give his name here, as I consider it the duty of his own country to find him out and acknowledge him, which, as it is so proud of its literary standing, of course it will do in due season.  On this, my first introduction to his poems, I became speedily absorbed in them, and was repeating to myself softly a verse which I remember now: 

  “Hers was sweetest of sweet faces,
   Hers the tenderest eyes of all;
   In her hair she had the traces
   Of a heavenly coronal,
   Bringing sunshine to sad places
   Where the sunlight could not fall.”

Then I was startled by the sound of a clock striking six.  I bethought myself of the people who were coming to dinner, and decided to go to my room and dress.  Replacing the “Pygmalion” book on the table whence I had taken it, I made my way upstairs, thinking as I went of Zara and her strange request, and wondering what journey she was going upon.

I could not come to any satisfactory conclusion on this point, besides, I had a curious disinclination to think about it very earnestly, though the subject kept recurring to my mind.  Yet always some inward monitor seemed to assure me, as plainly as though the words were spoken in my ear: 

“It is useless for you to consider the reason of this, or the meaning of that.  Take things as they come in due order:  one circumstance explains the other, and everything is always for the best.”

I prepared my Indian crepe dress for the evening, the same I had worn for Madame Didier’s party at Cannes; only, instead of having lilies of the valley to ornament it with, I arranged some clusters of the Marechal Niel roses I had gathered from the conservatory—­ lovely blossoms, with their dewy pale-gold centres forming perfect cups of delicious fragrance.  These, relieved by a few delicate sprays of the maiden-hair