rer with each day of possession. I never saw her otherwise than
attractive, and within a few months she had probed all the depths of my
nature. She discovered how certain sweet looks of hers could draw me to
her side, a willing and devoted slave; she measured my weakness with
her own power; she knew--what did she not know? I torture myself with
these foolish memories. All men past the age of twenty have learned
somewhat of the tricks of women--the pretty playful nothings that
weaken the will and sap the force of the strongest hero. She loved me?
Oh, yes, I suppose so! Looking back on those days, I can frankly say I
believe she loved me--as nine hundred wives out of a thousand love
their husbands, namely--for what they can get. And I grudged her
nothing. If I chose to idolize her, and raise her to the stature of an
angel when she was but on the low level of mere womanhood, that was my
folly, not her fault.

We kept open house. Our villa was a place of rendezvous for the leading
members of the best society in and around Naples. My wife was
universally admired; her lovely face and graceful manners were themes
of conversation throughout the whole neighborhood. Guido Ferrari, my
friend, was one of those who were loudest in her praise, and the
chivalrous homage he displayed toward her doubly endeared him to me. I
trusted him as a brother; he came and went as pleased him; he brought
Nina gifts of flowers and fanciful trifles adapted to her taste, and
treated her with fraternal and delicate kindness. I deemed my happiness
perfect--with love, wealth, and friendship, what more could a man
desire?

Yet another drop of honey was added to my cup of sweetness. On the
first morning of May, 1882, our child was born--a girl-babe, fair as
one of the white anemones which at that season grew thickly in the
woods surrounding out home. They brought the little one to me in the
shaded veranda where I sat at breakfast with Guido--a tiny, almost
shapeless bundle, wrapped in soft cashmere and old lace. I took the
fragile thing in my arms with a tender reverence; it opened its eyes;
they were large and dark like Nina's, and the light of a recent heaven
seemed still to linger in their pure depths. I kissed the little face;
Guido did the same; and those clear, quiet eyes regarded us both with a
strange half-inquiring solemnity. A bird perched on a bough of jasmine
broke into a low, sweet song, the soft wind blew and scattered the
petals of a white