matrons disappear
in a shower of confetti. Wearying of Venice he strove to see
Florence, "the city of lilies"; but the phrase only suggested
flower-sellers. He intoxicated upon his love, she who to him was now
Italy. He imagined confidences, sudden sights of her face more
exquisite than the Botticelli women in the echoing picture galleries,
more enigmatic than the eyes of a Leonardo; and in these days of
desire, he lived through the torment of impersonal love, drawn for
the first time out of himself. All beautiful scenes of love from
books, pictures, and life floated in his mind. He especially
remembered a sight of lovers which he had once caught on an hotel
staircase. A young couple, evidently just returned from the theatre,
had entered their room; the woman was young, tall, and aristocratic;
she was dressed in some soft material, probably a dress of
cream-coloured lace in numberless flounces; he remembered that her
hair was abundant and shadowed her face. The effect of firelight
played over the hangings of the bed; she stood by the bed and raised
her fur cloak from her shoulders. The man was tall and thin, and the
light caught the points of the short sharp beard. The scene had
bitten itself into Mike's mind, and it reappeared at intervals
perfect as a print, for he sometimes envied the calm and
healthfulness of honourable love.

"Great Scott! twelve o'clock!" Smiling, conscious of the incongruity,
he set to work, and in about three hours had finished a long letter,
in which he usefully advised "light o' loves" on the advantages of
foreign travel.

"I wonder," he thought, "how I can write in such a strain while I'm
in love with her. What beastliness! I hate the whole thing. I desire
a new life; I have tried vice long enough and am weary of it; I'm not
happy, and if I were to gain the whole world it would be dust and
ashes without her. Then why not take that step which would bring her
to me?" He faced his cowardice angrily, and resolved to post the
letter. But he stopped before he had walked fifty yards, for his
doubts followed him, buzzing and stinging like bees. Striving to rid
himself of them, and weary of considering his own embarrassed
condition, he listened gladly to Lizzie, who deplored Mount Rorke's
cruelty and her husband's continuous ill luck.

"I told him his family would never receive me; I didn't want to marry
him; for days I couldn't make up my mind; he can't say I persuaded
him into it."

"But you