"Fie on thee, Fabio!" he would cry. "Thou wilt not taste life till
thou hast sipped the nectar from a pair of rose-red lips--thou shalt
not guess the riddle of the stars till thou hast gazed deep down
into the fathomless glory of a maiden's eyes--thou canst not know
delight till thou hast clasped eager arms round a coy waist and
heard the beating of a passionate heart against thine own! A truce
to thy musty volumes! Believe it, those ancient and sorrowful
philosophers had no manhood in them--their blood was water--and
their slanders against women were but the pettish utterances of
their own deserved disappointments. Those who miss the chief prize
of life would fain persuade others that it is not worth having.
What, man! Thou, with a ready wit, a glancing eye, a gay smile, a
supple form, thou wilt not enter the lists of love? What says
Voltaire of the blind god?

"'Qui que tu sois voila ton maitre,
Il fut--il est--ou il doit etre !'"

When my friend spoke thus I smiled, but answered nothing. His
arguments failed to convince me. Yet I loved to hear him talk--his
voice was mellow as the note of a thrush, and his eyes had an
eloquence greater than all speech. I loved him--God knows!
unselfishly, sincerely--with that rare tenderness sometimes felt by
schoolboys for one another, but seldom experienced by grown men. I
was happy in his society, as he, indeed, appeared to be in mine. We
passed most of our time together, he, like myself, having been
bereaved of his parents in early youth, and therefore left to shape
out his own course of life as suited his particular fancy. He chose
art as a profession, and, though a fairly successful painter, was as
poor as I was rich. I remedied this neglect of fortune for him in