‘Fin al fin de’ giorni miei,
Io te sola voglio amar.‘
‘You never told us,’ said Veronica, ‘what you two did yesterday afternoon.’ The two were the Poet and Lamia.
‘You scarcely gave us the chance,’ Lamia replied. ‘We were all so absorbed in admiring the bust you brought from Florence of the founder of the Magliabecchian Library, whose name I have already forgotten, but who was himself, you told us, what you, dear Veronica, will become if you go on accumulating stray black-letter volumes at the rate you are doing at present,—quædam bibliotheca. But have a care. What if they were lost or stolen? I was reading only yesterday that, when Guarino, returning to Florence from Constantinople with a cargo of Greek manuscripts, was shipwrecked, and all his treasures went to the bottom of the sea, his hair turned white. See how well-informed I am getting. I can tell you still more on this interesting subject, and indeed meditate lecturing on it next winter in the Sala Dante. Cosimo de’ Medici healed a political breach with Alfonso of Naples by sending him a Manuscript of Livy; and Lorenzo declared to Pico della Mirandola, probably where we are now sitting, that, if his fortune proved insufficient, he would pledge his furniture in order to buy books. But, when your purse gives out, you will spare my easy-chair, Veronica, won’t you?‘
‘You have still not told us where you went yesterday afternoon.’
Lamia remained silent; leaving it to the Poet to reply:
‘We carried some flowers to the grave of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.’
Again there was silence. Then, shortly, Veronica asked:
‘Did nothing come of it?’
We all well knew the meaning of the question, and so did he, and accordingly replied: