“I rode forth with him even to the gate, firm in the belief that I had thrown the winning number in life’s game; but scarce had I turned my horse homeward when I wist that I had cast from me all the peace and joy of my soul.

“It is done.  I have denied Ann—­given her up forever—­and whereas she must one day hear it, be it done at once.  You, my poor Margery, I make my messenger.  I have tried, in truth, to write to Ann, but it would not do.  One thing you must say, and that is that, even when I have sinned most against her, I have never forgotten her; nay, that the memory of that happy time when she was fain to call herself my Laura moved me to ride forth to Treviso, where, in the chapel of the Franciscan Brethren, there may be seen a head of the true Laura done by the limner Simone di Martino, the friend of Petrarca, a right worthy work of art.  Methought she drew me to her with voice and becks.  And yet, and yet—­woe, woe is me!

“My pen has had a long rest, for meseemed I saw first Petrarca’s lady with her fair braids, and then Ann with her black hair, which shone with such lustrous, soft waves, and lay so nobly on the snow-white brow.  Her eyes and mien are verily those of Laura; both alike pure and lofty.  But here my full heart over-flows; it cannot forget how far Ann exceeds Laura in sweet woman’s grace.

“Day is breaking, and I can but sigh forth to the morning:  ’Lost, lost!  I have lost the fairest and the best!’

“Then I sat long, sunk in thought, looking out of window, across the bare tree-tops in the garden, at the grey mist which seems as though it ended only at the edge of the world.  It drips from the leafless boughs, and mine eyes—­I need not hide it—­will not be kept dry.  It is as though the leaves from the tree of my life had all dropped on the ground—­nay, as though my own guilty hand had torn them from the stem.”

“I have but now come home from a right merry company!  It is of a truth a merciful fashion which turns night into day.  Yes, Margery, for one whose first desire is to forget many matters, this Paris is a place of delight.  I have drunk deep of the wine-cup, but I would call any man villain who should say that I am drunk.  Can I not write as well as ever another—­and this I know, that if I sold myself it was not cheap.  It has cost me my love, and whereas it was great the void is great to fill.  Wherefore I say:  ’Bring hither all that giveth joy, wine and love-making, torches and the giddy dame in velvet and silk, dice and gaming, and mad rides, the fresh greenwood and bloody frays!’ Is this nothing?  Is it even a trivial thing?

“How, when all is said and done, shall we answer the question as to which is the better lot:  heavenly love, soaring on white swan’s wings far above all that is common dust, as Ann was wont to sing of it, or earthly joys, bold and free, which we can know only with both feet on the clod?