immortalized them. But I am mad to say such things. This is the age of
money-worship, and art is no longer valued as in those times."

"I do not value money," she said, in a clear, sweet voice. "I value many
things a thousand times more highly."

"You are an angel!" he cried. "Even though my love tortures me, I would
not change it for the highest pleasures other men enjoy. The poets learn
by suffering what they teach in song; so it will be with me. Sorrow will
make me a great artist; whereas, if I had been a happy man, I might
never, perhaps, have risen much above the common level. I am resigned to
suffer all my life."

"I do not like to hear you speak so," she said. "Life will not be all
suffering."

"I have raised my eyes, looked at the sun, and it has dazzled me," he
said. "Ah, lady, I have had such dreams, of love that overleaped all
barriers, as Art has rendered loveliness immortal for all time. I have
dreamed of loves such as Petrarch had for Laura, Dante for Beatrice, and
I wake to call myself mad for indulging in such dreams."

She was deeply interested. This was exactly as heros spoke in novels;
they always had a lofty contempt for money, and talked as though love
was the only and universal good. She looked half shyly at him; he was
very handsome, this young artist who loved her so, and very sad. How
dearly he loved her, and how strange it was! In all this wide world
there was not one who cared for her as he did; the thought seemed to
bring her nearer to him. No one had ever talked of loving her before.
Perhaps the beauty of the May evening softened her and inclined her