And so, between pleasantry and gossip, the time passed until the carriage stopped at the gate of the cemetery.
“You have chosen a very serious termination to your afternoon's drive, Mrs. Grey,” said Mr. Sinclair, as he assisted the ladies to alight. “I always carefully avoid whatever reminds me of my latter end.”
“Let me play Egyptian coffin, then, for once,” replied Mrs. Grey, but with a merry laugh that belied her words. “I will lead you to a contemplation of the fate of genius. I dote on Shelley, and so we have made a pilgrimage to his grave.”
“You have every appearance of a pilgrim about to visit some sacred shrine,” said Mr. Sinclair with an echo of her bright laugh. “Lead on, fair pilgrim princess; we humble votaries will follow wherever your illustrious steps may guide.”
A small, horizontal slab, almost hidden beneath the pyramid of Caius Cestus—itself a tomb—is all that marks the resting-place of the gifted, ill-fated Shelley.
“Here is your shrine, my lady pilgrim,” said Mr. Sinclair, as he removed some of the green overgrowth from off the inscription.
“Somebody make a suitable quotation,” said Mrs. Grey. “You know we ought to be sentimental now.”
Assunta at once rejoined:
“ ‘How wonderful is Death—
Death and his brother, Sleep!’