finished she said:--

"It is very beautiful, Antony--but it is not written for me."

"What can you mean, Beatrice? Who else can it be written for?"

"To the Image of me that you have set up in my place."

"Beatrice, are you going mad?"

"It is quite true, all the same. Time will show. Perhaps you don't know
it yourself as yet, but you will before long."

"But, Beatrice, the poem shows its own origin. Has your image blue eyes,
or curiously coiled hair--"

"Oh, yes, of course, you thought of me. You filled in from me. But the
inspiration, the wish to write it, came from the image--"

"It is certainly true that I love to look at it, as I love to look at a
picture of you--because it is you--"

"As yet, no doubt, but you will soon love it for its own sake. You are
already beginning."

"I love an image! You are too ridiculous, Beatrice."

"Does it really seem so strange, dear? I sometimes think you have never
loved anything else."