"No, I do not mean that; indeed, it would have been most disagreeable on my part had I meant anything of the kind. I only wanted to know where people go to from Rome, if they desire still to travel on. To Naples, I should say?" "To be sure. To Naples, to Capri! In Capri there stands amidst orange groves, with sublimest view of the blue infinity of the ocean, a fair white hostelry, embowered in roses, Quisisana. Years ago I was there, and I have longed ever since to be back again. _Qui si sana!_ What a sound of comfort, of promise! _Qui si sana!_ Here one gets well! Even those who ate fairly well, physically, have something to recover from. Why, life itself--what is it but a long disease, and death its only cure?" Another pause. He had intended that there should be no new break in their conversation and yet the very words he had just uttered, still under the impulse of the invalid's peevish humour, were little likely to induce the beautiful and taciturn girl by his side to talk. He wanted to make heir talk. It never occurred to him that her silence was due to a lack of ideas, or even to shyness. Quite the reverse. She interested him more and more every moment, and he was strongly impressed that he was dealing with a girl of marked individuality, reposing securely in her own strength. Of her whom he had known and loved as a child, and whose image he had cherished in fondest, truest memory, never a trace! "You know, Uncle Bertram, that you are going to see Fräulein von Aschhof--Aunt Lydia--to-night?" she resumed abruptly. Bertram started. That name--from her, fair, chaste lips--had a doubly hateful sound. "I know," he answered; "not from your parents, but I know." "They will have shrunk from telling you," Erna continued. "Mamma was most reluctant to sanction Aunt Lydia's coming; but Aunt Lydia begged so very hard to be allowed to see you once more, and she thought that now, when you have been so very, very ill, and when you are going away for such a long time, you might be in gentler mood. And yet she was afraid to encounter you. She grew so nervous as we were driving along, that I believe she was uncommonly near getting out and leaving us to continue the journey without her. At last I could scarcely bear to witness her uneasiness any longer, and I felt considerable relief when I got out myself in order to walk across the hill--from Fischbach, don't you know--and as I was coming along, I was debating whether, if I reached home before them, I might not beg you to be a little friendly towards auntie. You ... but I am not sure whether to go on ..." "I beg you will do so." "I only wanted to add: you owe it to her." "Do I?" "I should think so; for her only fault has been that she has loved you and still loves you, and you ..." "My dear child, I beg you will go on without any shyness. I am anxious, very anxious, you should do so." "And you ... left her, after you had been engaged for a whole year!"