On the straw-colored linen cover shone the title in gold: 'Yseult la Blonde', by Vivian Bell.

It was a collection of French verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London.

She read indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry than of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable friend, and whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their meetings, which were so rare, kissed her, calling her "darling," and babbled; who, plain yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly exquisite, lived at Fiesole like a philosopher, while England celebrated her as her most beloved poet.

Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson, she had fallen in love with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without even finishing her Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French poems expressing Italian ideas.

She had sent her 'Yseult la Blonde' to "Darling," with a letter inviting her to spend a month with her at Fiesole.