He rose and went to the bedroom. Pausing in the doorway he said: ``The form of the human female, unlike her mind and her spirit, is the most challenging loveliness in all nature.''

When Claire returned to Bishopsgate she longed to tell them she had become Byron's mistress. By odd coincidence, on the evening of her return Shelley chose to read Parisina, which was the latest of the titled poet's successes. As he declaimed the sonorous measures, it was as much as Claire could do to restrain herself from bursting out with her dramatic tidings.

``Although it is not the best of which he is capable,'' said Shelley as he closed the book, ``it is still poetry of a high order.''

``If he would only leave the East,'' said Mary. ``I am tired of sultans and scimitars.''

``The hero of his next poem is Napoleon Bonaparte,'' said Claire, with slightly overdone carelessness.

``How do you know that?'' demanded Mary.

``I was told it on good authority,'' Claire answered darkly. ``I mustn't tell, I mustn't tell,'' she repeated to herself. ``I promised him I wouldn't.''

Winter came, and with it Mary's baby -- a boy as she had wished. William, he was called, in honor of the man who was at once Shelley's pensioner and his most bitter detractor. With a pardonable irony Shelley wrote to the father who had publicly disowned his daughter:

``Fanny and Mrs. Godwin will probably be glad to hear that Mary has safely recovered from a very favorable confinement, and that her child is well.''