Constance was silent; the magic of the sunset was gone; they walked back
to the house, thoughtful, and somewhat cooled towards each other.

Another day, on which the rain forbade them to stir from home, Godolphin,
after he had remained long silent and meditating, said to Constance, who
was busy writing letters to her political friends, in which, avoiding
Italy and love, the scheming countess dwelt only on busy England and its
eternal politics:

"Will you read to me, dear Constance? my spirits are sad to-day; the
weather affects them."

Constance laid aside her letters, and took up one of the many books that
strewed the table: it was a volume of one of our most popular poets.

"I hate poetry," said Godolphin, languidly.

"Here is Machiavel's history of the Prince of Lucca," said Constance,
quickly.

"Ah, read that, and see how odious is ambition," returned Godolphin.

And Constance read, but she warmed at what Godolphin's lip curled with
disdain. The sentiments, however, drew him from his apathy; and
presently, with the eloquence he could command when once excited, he
poured forth the doctrines of his peculiar philosophy. Constance
listened, delighted and absorbed; she did not sympathise with the thought,
but she was struck with the genius which clothed it. "Ah!" said she,
with enthusiasm, "why should those brilliant words be thus spoken and lost