of the Lido were silver, and the water shuffled gently over them,
as gently as a child's little feet. And there was a clump of
olive-trees there so green as to be black, and there alighted
before it a great scarlet Egyptian bird. And the beauty of that
brought the tears to my eyes, so that I thought of nuns in their
cells and barefoot friars in the hollow lands, and they striving
for paradise. What did I care about paradise? A Venetian I. So
why should I want to go to China?"

"You have made a great case for the grandeur and beauty of Venice,"
says the sea-captain. "It is lovely, surely," says he, filling his
pipe; "but finer poets nor you, my lad," says he, lighting it, "have
tried to describe the grace and beauty of Tao-Tuen, and," says he
taking a draw, "have failed."

"Tao-Tuen is a beautiful name. It is like two notes plucked on a
harp. And it must be a wonderful place, surely, if great poets
cannot describe it."

"It is not a place," said the captain, "it's a girl."

"As for women, Venice --"

"Venice be damned!" said the sea-captain. "Not in Venice, not in
all the world, is there the like for grace or beauty of Tao-Tuen.
They call her Golden Bells," he says.

"Is she a dancing-girl?" Marco asked.

"She is not a dancing-girl," says the sea-captain, "she is the