Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as he started from London.  He had gotten an absolute victory over Sir Raffle Buffle, and that alone was gratifying to his feelings.  He liked the excitement of a journey, and especially a journey to Italy; and the importance of the cause of his journey was satisfactory to him.  But above all things he was delighted at having found that Lily Dale was pleased at his going.  He had seen clearly that she was much pleased, and that she had made something of a hero of him because of his alacrity in the cause of his cousin.  He had partially understood—­and had understood in a dim sort of way—­that his want of favour in Lily’s eyes had come from some deficiency of his own in this respect.  She had not found him to be a hero.  She had known him first as a boy, with boyish belongings around him, and she had seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with too much intimacy for the creation of that love with which he wished to fill her heart.  His rival had come before her eyes for the first time with all the glories of Pall Mall heroism about him, and Lily in her weakness had been conquered by them.  Since that she had learned how weak she had been—­how silly, how childish, she would say to herself when she allowed her memory to go back to the details of her own story; but not the less on that account did she feel the want of something heroic in a man before she could teach herself to look upon him as more worthy of her regard than other men.  She had still unconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had been dispelled as unconsciously, by simply by his appearance.  There had been moments in which John Eames had almost risen to the necessary point—­had almost made good his footing on the top of some moderate, but still sufficient mountain.  But there had still be a succession of little tumbles —­unfortunately slips for which he himself should not always have been held responsible; and he had never quite stood upright on his pinnacle, visible to Lily’s eyes as being really excelsior.  Of all this John Eames himself had an inkling which had often made him uncomfortable.  What the mischief was it she wanted of him; and what was he to do?  The days for plucking glory from the nettle danger were clean gone by.  He was well dressed.  He knew a good many of the right sort of people.  He was not in debt.  He had saved an old nobleman’s life once upon a time, and had been a good deal talked about on that score.  He had even thrashed the man who had ill-treated her.  His constancy had been as the constancy of Jacob!  What was it that she wanted of him?  But in a certain way he did know what was wanted; and now, as he started for Florence, intending to stop nowhere till he reached that city, he hoped that by this chivalrous journey he might even yet achieve the thing necessary.