‘You had the news from Vincent Carrington,’ He echoed,—picking up the phrase beyond, As if he knew the rest was merely talk To fill a gap and keep out a strong wind,— ‘You had, then, Vincent’s personal news?’ ‘His own,’ I answered. ‘All that ruined world of yours Seems crumbling into marriage. Carrington Has chosen wisely.’ ‘Do _you_ take it so?’ He cried, ‘and is it possible at last’ ... He paused there,—and then, inward to himself, ‘Too much at last, too late!—yet certainly’ ... (And there his voice swayed as an Alpine plank That feels a passionate torrent underneath) ‘The knowledge, if I had known it, first or last, Had never changed the actual case for _me_. And best, for _her_, at this time.’ Nay, I thought, He loves Kate Ward, it seems, now, like a man, Because he has married Lady Waldemar. Ah, Vincent’s letter said how Leigh was moved To hear that Vincent was betrothed to Kate. With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world! Then I spoke,—‘I did not think, My cousin, you had ever known Kate Ward.’ ‘In fact I never knew her. ’Tis enough That Vincent did, before he chose his wife For other reasons than those topaz eyes I’ve heard of. Not to undervalue them, For all that. One takes up the world with eyes.’ —Including Romney Leigh, I thought again, Albeit he knows them only by repute. How vile must all men be, since _he’s_ a man. His deep pathetic voice, as if he guessed I did not surely love him, took the word; ‘You never got a letter from Lord Howe A month back, dear Aurora?’ ‘None,’ I said. ‘I felt it was so,’ he replied: ‘Yet, strange! Sir Blaise Delorme has passed through Florence?’ ‘Ay, By chance I saw him in Our Lady’s church, (I saw him, mark you, but he saw not me) Clean-washed in holy water from the count Of things terrestrial,—letters and the rest; He had crossed us out together with his sins. Ay, strange; but only strange that good Lord Howe Preferred him to the post because of pauls. For me I’m sworn to never trust a man— At least with letters.’