"And yes, he
knew all about those wonderful lovers better far than your Shakespeare did,
who leaves me quite cold when I read his view of them. Cleopatra was to me
so subtle, so splendid a queen."
"Of course she was just you, my heart," said Paul. "You are her soul living
over again, and that poem you must give me to keep some day, because it
says just what I shall want to say if ever I must be away from you for a
time. See, have I remembered it right?
"'Tell her, till I see Those eyes, I do not live--that Rome to me Is
hateful,--tell her--oh!--I know not what--That every thought and feeling,
space and spot, Is like an ugly dream where she is not; All persons
plagues; all living wearisome; All talking empty...'.
"Yes, that is what I should say--I say it to myself now even in the short
while I am absent from you dressing!"
The lady's eyes brimmed with tenderness. "Paul!--you do love me, my own!"
she said.
"Oh, why can't we go on and travel together, darling?" Paul continued. "I
want you to show me the world--at least the best of Europe. In every
country you would make me feel the spirit of the place. Let us go to
Greece, and see the temples and worship those old gods. They knew about
love, did they not?"
The lady leant back and smiled, as if she liked to hear him talk.
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