‘I, worthy of him? In your sense I am not so—let it pass. And yet I save him if I marry him; Let that pass too.’ ‘Pass, pass! we play police Upon my cousin’s life, to indicate What may or may not pass?’ I cried. ‘He knows What’s worthy of him; the choice remains with _him_; And what he chooses, act or wife, I think I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.’ ‘’Tis somewhat rashly said,’ she answered slow. ‘Now let’s talk reason, though we talk of love. Your cousin Romney Leigh’s a monster! there, The word’s out fairly; let me prove the fact. We’ll take, say, that most perfect of antiques, They call the Genius of the Vatican, Which seems too beauteous to endure itself In this mixed world, and fasten it for once Upon the torso of the Drunken Fawn, (Who might limp surely, if he did not dance,) Instead of Buonarroti’s mask: what then? We show the sort of monster Romney is, With god-like virtues and heroic aims Subjoined to limping possibilities Of mismade human nature. Grant the man Twice god-like, twice heroic,—still he limps, And here’s the point we come to.’ ‘Pardon me, But, Lady Waldemar, the point’s the thing We never come to.’ ‘Caustic, insolent At need! I like you’—(there, she took my hands) ‘And now my lioness, help Androcles, For all your roaring. Help me! for myself I would not say so—but for him. He limps So certainly, he’ll fall into the pit A week hence,—so I lose him—so he is lost! And when he’s fairly married, he a Leigh, To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth, Starved out in London, till her coarse-grained hands Are whiter than her morals,—you, for one, May call his choice most worthy.’ ‘Married! lost! He, ... Romney!’ ‘Ah, you’re moved at last,’ she said. ‘These monsters, set out in the open sun, Of course throw monstrous shadows: those who think Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who but he? And who but you can wonder? He has been mad, The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man, He soured the proctors, tried the gownsmen’s wits, With equal scorn of triangles and wine, And took no honours, yet was honourable. They’ll tell you he lost count of Homer’s ships In Melbourne’s poor-bills, Ashley’s factory bills,— Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to praise, For other women, dear, we could not name Because we’re decent. Well, he had some right On his side probably; men always have, Who go absurdly wrong. The living boor Who brews your ale, exceeds in vital worth Dead Cæsar who ‘stops bungholes’ in the cask; And also, to do good is excellent, For persons of his income, even to boors: I sympathise with all such things. But he