The first letter from Venice consisted of a series of interjections in praise of the poetry of gondolas, varied by allusions to the sad smell of the low tide water, and the amazing quality of the heat; and then Dahlia wrote more composedly:—­

“Titian the painter lived here, and painted ladies, who sat to him without a bit of garment on, and indeed, my darling, I often think it was more comfortable for the model than for the artist.  Even modesty seems too hot a covering for human creatures here.  The sun strikes me down.  I am ceasing to have a complexion.  It is pleasant to know that my Edward is still proud of me.  He has made acquaintance with some of the officers here, and seems pleased at the compliments they pay me.

“They have nice manners, and white uniforms that fit them like a kid glove.  I am Edward’s ‘resplendent wife.’  A colonel of one of the regiments invited him to dinner (speaking English), ’with your resplendent wife.’  Edward has no mercy for errors of language, and he would not take me.  Ah! who knows how strange men are!  Never think of being happy unless you can always be blind.  I see you all at home—­Mother Dumpling and all—­as I thought I should when I was to come to Venice.

“Persuade—­do persuade father that everything will be well.  Some persons are to be trusted.  Make him feel it.  I know that I am life itself to Edward.  He has lived as men do, and he can judge, and he knows that there never was a wife who brought a heart to her husband like mine to him.  He wants to think, or he wants to smoke, and he leaves me; but, oh! when he returns, he can scarcely believe that he has me, his joy is so great.  He looks like a glad thankful child, and he has the manliest of faces.  It is generally thoughtful; you might think it hard, at first sight.

“But you must be beautiful to please some men.  You will laugh—­I have really got the habit of talking to my face and all myself in the glass.  Rhoda would think me cracked.  And it is really true that I was never so humble about my good looks.  You used to spoil me at home—­you and that wicked old Mother Dumpling, and our own dear mother, Rhoda—­oh! mother, mother!  I wish I had always thought of you looking down on me!  You made me so vain—­much more vain than I let you see I was.  There were times when it is quite true I thought myself a princess.  I am not worse-looking now, but I suppose I desire to be so beautiful that nothing satisfies me.

“A spot on my neck gives me a dreadful fright.  If my hair comes out much when I comb it, it sets my heart beating; and it is a daily misery to me that my hands are larger than they should be, belonging to Edward’s ‘resplendent wife.’  I thank heaven that you and I always saw the necessity of being careful of our fingernails.  My feet are of moderate size, though they are not French feet, as Edward says.  No:  I shall never dance.  He sent me to the dancing-master in London, but it was too late.  But I have been complimented on my walking, and that seems to please Edward.  He does not dance (or mind dancing) himself, only he does not like me to miss one perfection.  It is his love.  Oh! if I have seemed to let you suppose he does not love me as ever, do not think it.  He is most tender and true to me.  Addio!  I am signora, you are signorina.