He paused awhile and sighed. "The second snare," said he, "is set less wide; It stands midway between the dawn of youth And beauty's sunset, with its naked truth, A danger hidden cunningly in flowers, And the wild drowsing of the noontide hours. Here fall the elect, the chosen virtuous few, Who have outlived the worst the storm could do, But faint when it is over, through mere stress Of their mortality's first weariness. 'Tis hard to see youth perish, even when Ourselves to the mad warrant have set pen; And for the wisest there are days of grief And secret doubts and hours of unbelief In all things but the one forbidden bliss Churchmen forbid, and poets call a kiss. Why should we wonder? 'Tis a kindlier fate At least than that, the last, which comes too late, The old fool's folly nursed at forty-five. Griselda is an angel, but alive, Believe me, to her wings." A fatuous flush Mantled his face, not quite perhaps a blush, But something conscious, as of one who knows. "Virtue and pleasure are not always foes," He sighed. "And much depends upon the man." I turned impatient. There, behind her fan, At the far table's end, Griselda's eyes Were watching us, half hid by its disguise, But conscious too, as if a secret string Had vibrated 'twixt her and that vain thing, The cynic boy, whose word was in my ear, Dishonouring to me and him and her. Our eyes met, and hers fell; a sudden pain Touched me of memory, and in every vein Ran jealous anger at young Manton's wit, While, half aloud, I flung my curse on it. Later, I found Griselda gravely gay, And glad to see me in the accustomed way Of half affection my long zeal had won, Her face no older, though the years had spun Some threads unnoticed in her fair brown hair Of lighter hue than I remembered there, Less silver streaked than gold. All else had grown Fairer with time, and tenderer in its tone, As when in August woods a second burst Of leaves is seen more golden than the first. A woman truly to be loved--but loving? There was the riddle wit despaired of proving, For who can read the stars? I sat with her The evening through, and rose up happier: In all that crowd there was no single face Worthy her notice, not to say her grace, And once again her charm was on my soul. "If she love any"--this was still the goal Of my night thoughts in argument with fear-- "Say what they will, the lover is not here." Not here! And yet, at parting, she had pressed Manton's sole hand, and nodded to the rest.