when I might have given my days to love. But then, thought I, if
I had not spent my early days sternly and austerely, I might have
wasted myself upon vain and worthless women, and at the thought all
my being went out in love and tenderness to my dear mistress, my
dear lady, who had come at last and compelled me--compelled me by
her invincible charm for me--to lay that life aside.

"'You are worth it,' I said, speaking without intending her to
hear; 'you are worth it, my dearest one; worth pride and praise and
all things. Love! to have you is worth them all together." And at
the murmur of my voice she turned about.

"'Come and see,' she cried--I can hear her now--'come and see
the sunrise upon Monte Solaro.'

"I remember how I sprang to my feet and joined her at the
balcony. She put a white hand upon my shoulder and pointed towards
great masses of limestone, flushing, as it were, into life. I
looked. But first I noted the sunlight on her face caressing the
lines of her cheeks and neck. How can I describe to you the scene
we had before us? We were at Capri--"

"I have been there," I said. "I have clambered up Monte
Solaro and drunk vero Capri--muddy stuff like cider--at the
summit."

"Ah!" said the man with the white face; "then perhaps you can
tell me--you will know if this is indeed Capri. For in this life
I have never been there. Let me describe it. We were in a little
room, one of a vast multitude of little rooms, very cool and sunny,