They pass before me, a fair frieze of unforgotten faces; but most I loved a Roman poet, because, perhaps, he loved so well the memory of her I had loved, and knew so skilfully to make bloom again among his own red roses those petals of passionate ivory which the fishermen of Lesbos had recovered from the sea." "Tell me of your lovers, Silencieux," said Antony again.
"Hundreds of years after, I loved in Florence a young poet with a face of silver.

His soul was given to a little red-cheeked girl.

She died, and then I took him to my bosom, and loved him on through the years, till his face had grown iron with many sorrows.

Now at last, his baby-girl by his side, he sits in heaven, with a face of gold.

In Paris," she went on, "have I been wonderfully beloved, and in northern lands near the pole--" "But--England ?" said Antony.