brilliant parts--so strong and farseeing! He lives in Italy, with the
monks, they say. What a pity the English people do not better appreciate
him!

"But he may succeed yet," said Mr. Kenyon. "He is not old."

"Oh, of course, such genius must some day be recognized. But he may be
gone then--how old did you say he was?"

Mr. Kenyon had not said; but he now explained that Mr. Browning was
thirty-four, that is to say, just the age of himself, ahem! Furthermore,
Mr. Browning did not live in Italy--that is, not now, for at that present
moment he was in London. In fact, Mr. Kenyon had lunched with him an hour
before. They had talked of Miss Barrett (for who else was there among
women worth talking of!) and Mr. Browning had expressed a wish to see her.
Mr. Kenyon had expressed a wish that Mr. Browning should see her, and now
if Miss Barrett would express a wish that Mr. Browning should call and see
her, why, Mr. Kenyon would fetch him--doctors or no doctors.

And he fetched him.

And I'm glad, aren't you?

Now Robert Browning was not at all of the typical poet type. In stature,
he was rather short; his frame was compact and muscular. In his youth, he
had been a wrestler--carrying away laurels of a different sort from those
which he was to wear later. His features were inclined to be heavy; in
repose his face was dull, and there was no fire in his glance. He wore
loose-fitting, plain, gray clothes, a slouch-hat and thick-soled shoes. At
first look you would have said he was a well-fed, well-to-do country