The conversation fell, and Mike remembered the letter in his side pocket; it lay just over his heart.  Frank’s monetary difficulties had affected his matrimonial aspirations.  “For if the paper ‘bursts up’ how shall I live, much less support a wife?  Live!  I shall always be able to live, but to support a wife is quite another matter.  Perhaps Lily has some money.  If she had five hundred a year I would marry her; but I don’t know if she has a penny.  She must have some, a few thousands—­enough to pay the first expenses.  To get a house and get into the house would cost a thousand.”  A cloud passed over his face.  The householder, the payer of rates and taxes which the thought evoked, jarred and caricatured the ideal, the ideal Mike Fletcher, which in more or less consistent form was always present in his mind.  He who had always received, would have to make presents.  The engagement ring would cost five-and-twenty pounds, and where was he to get the money?  The ring he would have to buy at once; and his entire fortune did not for the moment amount to ten pounds.  Her money, if she had any, would pay for the honeymoon; and it was only right that a woman should pay for her honeymoon.  They would go to Italy.  She was Italy!  At least she was his idea of Italy.  Italy! he had never been there; he had always intended to keep Italy for his wedding tour.  He was virgin of Italy.  So much virginity he had at all events kept for his wife.  She was the emblem and symbol of Italy.

Venice rose into his eyes.  He is in a gondola with her; the water is dark with architrave and pillar; and a half moon floats in a boundless sky But remembering that this is the Venice of a hundred “chromos,” his imagination filled the well-known water-way with sunlight and maskers, creating the carnival upon the Grand Canal.  Laughing and mocking Loves; young nobles in blue hose, sword on thigh, as in Shakespeare’s plays; young brides in tumultuous satin, with collars of translucent pearls; garlands reflected in the water; scarves thrown about the ample bosoms of patrician matrons.  Then the brides, the nobles, the pearls, the loves, and the 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,