w,' I said, 'write to my dictation.'

He took the pen and wrote--

'I have this day informed Signor Calvotti that Mr. Charles Grammont owes
me the sum of One Hundred Francs, and in consideration of this receipt
Signor Calvotti has discharged Mr. Grammont's debt.'

This he signed, and I gave him a bank-note for the amount.

'Now,' I told him, 'I do not in the least believe that Mr. Grammont owed
you anything, and if you come near me again I will use this document. I
have a great mind to try it now.' 'Ah, signor, sapete cosa vuol dire la
fame?' I own that touched me. I _have_ known what hunger is, and I could
guess what it would do with a creature of this kind. 'Go your way,' I
said, 'and trouble me no more'--he bowed his head and spread out his
hands in assent--'but remember!'

'Signor Calvotti,' he said, 'I thank you, and I will trouble you no
more.'

Young Clyde had written to me saying that he was tired and overworked,
and that he needed a month's holiday, and meant to take it. He had never
been in Italy, and naturally proposed to join me in Naples. During the
whole ten months which had gone between my farewell to England and
my receipt of this letter from Arthur, I had striven, and not
unsuccessfully, to banish from my mind all painful and regretful
thoughts of Cecilia. Love is a great passion, but, like everything else
but fate, it is capable of subjection by a resolute will. That soul,
believe me, is of a barren soil indeed, wherein the flower of love has
once been planted, if the flower wither or can be rooted up. But a man
who gardens his soul with resolute and lofty hopes can train the first
poor weed of passion to a glorious bloom, whose perfume is not pain but
comfort. This is a base thing, that a man shall say he loves a woman too
well to be happy whilst she can be happy with another. For me, my divine
Cecilia looks down upon me in my waking hours and in the dreams of
sleep, a thing so far away that I can but worship without a hope of
ownership, or any longer a desire. I am content, I have loved, and I
have not been unworthy. O mia santissima, mio amore no longer--my saint
for ever, my love no more--so you were happy, I were happy. But there
are clouds about you, though you know them not.

Arthur had come to Naples by one of the boats of the Messagerie
Imperiale, and had come to share my little house at Posilipo. He brought
with him kindest remembrances from Cecilia and from her sister. I had
mentione