my dream.  I suppose I had been dreaming of 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 course.  Now!—­yes.

“Well, this room of ours was at the extremity of the cape, so that one could see east and west.  Eastward was a great cliff—­a thousand feet high perhaps—­coldly gray except for one bright edge of gold, and beyond it the Isle of the Sirens, and a falling coast that faded and passed into the hot sunrise.  And when one turned to the west, distinct and near was a little bay, a little beach still in shadow.  And out of that shadow rose Solaro straight and tall, flushed and golden crested, like a beauty throned, and the white moon was floating behind her in the sky.  And before us from east to west stretched the many-tinted sea all dotted with little sailing boats.