f it before I awoke, and the fading outline of
some queer new development I had imagined still hung about me as I
rubbed my eyes. It was some grubby affair that made me thank God
for the sunlight. I sat up on the couch and remained looking at
the woman and rejoicing--rejoicing that I had come away out of all
that tumult and folly and violence before it was too late. After
all, I thought, this is life--love and beauty, desire and delight,
are they not worth all those dismal struggles for vague, gigantic
ends? And I blamed myself for having ever sought to be a leader
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,
hollowed out of the limestone of a sort of cape, very high above
the sea. The whole island, you know, was one enormous hotel,
complex beyond explaining, and on the other side there were miles
of floating hotels, and huge floating stages to which the flying
machines came. They called it a pleasure city. Of course, there
was none of that in your time--rather, I should say, is none of
that now. Of cour