"Dear me!" she said to herself, "here is a poem addressed to me. He told me the other day, when he was in bad a humour, that I reminded him of the heroine of a French novel he had been reading--'La Fille de Marbre.' I begin to think he almost sees through me sometimes now, and does not consider me quite such a perfect being as he did. I will read this 'Fille de Marbre,' and see what nonsense he has been writing about me. I may learn something about the true state of his sentiments." There was an amused smile on her face as she read the barrister's latest poetical production:-- "LA FILLE DE MARBRE." I. THEN. "Children of pleasure are we: the whole of our life is a play; With white breasts, music, and wine we while the hours away. You scorn and revile us and hate us, would put us to torture and shame, You virtuous! Ah, well! We will not pause in the game, To be bitter in our turn on you and wax hot. Not we! for we know Life is too short for such folly. Away all pother and woe! Think not of the After! Drink deep of the Present! This world's good enough; Has infinite sweets: fool he that follows the way that is rough! "The maudlin sage drones out, 'All pleasure is vain.' Let him try! He will weep and rend his clothes with regret that he did deny These rapturous joys to himself through so many pitiful years. What do we know of the After? Why brood upon it with fears? The Now is enough for the wise. Come, ye daughters of joy! Help me to live as one should. Let thy white feet glance in my hall: Of all the gifts of the good gods, ye are the sweetest of all! "Hark to the sour recluse! He says, 'Woman's a perilous toy,' That 'the girl is selfish and false, and follows the luck of the dice, Smells gold afar off as a vulture, with caresses feigned for the rich, And when the gold is all gone will let her love die in a ditch.' "A liar! a coward he! that fears what he does not know. 'Tis the cold, not the fierce Bacchante's blood, the red gold mastereth so. "For we too have died for each other--we 'selfish' children of vice, Our passionate kisses are warm, yea warmer than virtue can tell. Ho! ho! while I live, I will live, nor give thought to God or his hell!" II. NOW. "Cold is the wind and the rain of the autumn night in the street. My rags are so thin. Chill death ascends from my sodden feet. Up to my heart. What care I? For I can laugh at the cold. My head is hot; my blood boils. I have just met a friend of old. I was proud, I was dying for food, yet dared not beg for a crust; But he asked me to drink, and I drank--and now I feel as a god, As a god who has something to give, and so can rule with a nod.