Ah, Edith, so I mused, an artist thou,
Thou art indeed! but not an actress, no,
Whatever may have train’d thee, save to tread
The stage of truth! and Elbert’s every act
Against my flinty confidence in her
Struck fire and flash’d, each time I met him now;
The more so, that each time I met him now,
In earnest, or to stir me to distrust,
He flutter’d like her fan at Edith’s beck,
Her silence fill’d with subtlest flattery,
Her vacant hours invaded with himself;
Till all my life, at last, appear’d a plot
To steal upon his absence, and then pluck
Love’s fruit which once his presence only brought.