"The fact is," he said, "that when I think of Browning's poems, all along the line of them, there are some of them seem to burn like fire, and I cannot see the others."
"This is a very modest little one," said she. "It is a poor poet starving in a garret; and he tells you he has a friend beyond the sea; and he knows that if he were to fall ill, and to wake up out of his sickness, he would find his friend there, tending him like the gentlest of nurses, even though he got nothing but grumblings about his noisy boots. And the—the poor fellow—"
She paused for a second.
"He goes on to tell about his sweetheart—who has ruined him—to whom he has sacrificed his life and his peace and fame—and what would she do? He says,
"'She
—I'll tell you—calmly would decree
That I should roast at a slow fire,
If that would compass her desire
And make her one whom they invite
To the famous ball to-morrow night.'
That is—the difference—between a friend and a sweetheart—"
He did not notice that she spoke rather uncertainly, and that her eyes were wet.
"What do you mean, Natalie?"
"That it is a good thing for you that you have a friend. There is one, at all events—who will—who will not let you go away alone."