I may fancy all day--and it shall be so-- That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names, Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo!" So, as she winds up her hair (we may fancy), Pippa plays the not yet relinquished baby-game of Let's-pretend; but is grown-up in this--that she begins and ends with love, which children give and take unconsciously. "Some one shall love me, as the world calls love: I am no less than Ottima, take warning! The gardens and the great stone house above, And other house for shrubs, all glass in front, Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont, To court me, while old Luca yet reposes . . ." But this earliest pretending breaks down quickly. What, after all, is the sum of those doings in the shrub-house? What would Pippa gain, were she in truth great haughty Ottima? She would but "give abundant cause for prate." Ottima, bold, confident, and not fully aware, can face that out, but Pippa knows, more closely than the woman rich and proud can know, "How we talk in the little town below." So the first dream is over. "Love, love, love--there's better love, I know!" --and the next pretending shall "defy the scoffer"; it shall be the love of Jules and Phene-- "Why should I not be the bride as soon As Ottima?" Moreover, last night she had seen the stranger-girl arrive--"if you call it seeing her," for it had been the merest momentary glimpse-- ". . . one flash Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses, Blacker than all except the black eyelash; I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses, So strict was she the veil Should cover close her pale Pure cheeks--a bride to look at and scarce touch, Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature? * * * * * How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss So startling as her real first infant kiss? Oh, no--not envy, this!" For, recalling the virgin dimness of that apparition, the slender gamut of that exquisite reserve, the little work-girl has a moment's pang of pity for herself, who has to trip along the streets "all but naked to the knee." "Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed," she cries, who is pure gold if not pure whiteness, and in an instant shows herself to be at any rate pure innocence. It could not be envy, she argues, which pierced her as she thought of that immaculate girlhood-- ". . . for if you gave me Leave to take or to refuse, In earnest, do you think I'd choose That sort of new love to enslave me? Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning; As little fear of losing it as winning: Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, And only parents' love can last our lives."