beautiful dreams, great thoughts. His verses—neglected this long time, since Sylvia did not care for poetry—flourished once more.
And music—Sylvia’s taste in music had been Sullivan; the old wife touched the piano with magic fingers, and Bach, Beethoven, Wagner came to transfigure the Temple rooms. Michael had never been so contented—never so wretched; for, as the quiet weeks went by, the leaves fell from the plane tree, and the time drew near when he must show his wife to the tenants—his white-haired wife. In these months a very real friendship had grown up between them. Michael had never met a woman, old or young, whose tastes chimed so tunefully with his own. Ah! what a pity he had not met a young woman with these tastes—this soul. And now, liking, friendship, affection—all the finer, nobler side of love—he could indeed feel for his old wife; but love—lovers’ love, that would set the seal on all the rest—this he might never know, except for some other woman, who would succeed to his wife’s title.
Badly as Michael had behaved, I think it is permissible to be sorry for him. His wife, in fact, was very sorry.
One day he met Sylvia in the park, and all
