"Well, Claire, my dear, I cannot write more to-night. You are wonderful, and your letters are my great joy. They soothe me. I find myself growing less short-tempered, less out of love with my fellow man.
"There is a little poem that comes to my mind now and speaks of you.
"'The world is young to-day:
Forget the gods are old,
Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.
Forget the gods are old,
Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.
A little flower of Love
Is ours, without a root,
Without the end of fruit,
Yet—take the scent thereof.
Is ours, without a root,
Without the end of fruit,
Yet—take the scent thereof.
There may be hope above,
There may be rest beneath;
We see them not, but Death
Is palpable—and Love.'
There may be rest beneath;
We see them not, but Death
Is palpable—and Love.'
"It is a charming thing, and applies to old friends who love one another and whose days are transient, as well as to young lovers, whose love is perhaps transient.
"Write soon. Tell me more about Judy.
"Stephen."
Madame Claire answered almost at once:
