The day after my marriage I did not come into the salon until just
before luncheon, at half-past twelve o'clock. My bride was not there.

"Her Ladyship has gone out walking, Sir Nicholas," Burton informed me as
he settled me in my chair.

I took up a book which was lying upon the table. It was a volume of
Laurence Hope's "Last Poems." It may have come in a batch of new
publications sent in a day or two ago, but I had not remarked it. It was
not cut all through, but someone had cut it up to the 86th page and had
evidently paused to read a poem called "Listen Beloved," the paper knife
lay between the leaves. Whoever it was must have read it over and over,
for the book opened easily there, and one verse struck me forcibly:

"Sometimes I think my longing soul remembers
A previous love to which it aims and strives,
As if this fire of ours were but the embers
Of some wild flame burnt out in former lives.
Perchance in earlier days I did attain
That which I seek for now, so all in vain.
Maybe my soul and thine were fused and wed
In some great night, long since dissolved and dead."

And then my eye travelled on to the bottom of the page.

"Or has my spirit a divine prevision
Of vast vague passions stored in days to be
When some strong souls shall conquer their division
And two shall be as one eternally."