When Leslie and Peter went to Venice to pick up Berovieri goblets¹ and other things, Leslie stayed at the Hotel Europa and Peter in the Palazzo Amadeo. The Palazzo Amadeo is a dilapidated palace looking onto the Rio delle Beccarie; it is let in flats to the poor; and in the sea-story suite³ of the great, bare, dingy⁴, gilded⁵ rooms lived Hilary and Peggy Margerison, and three disreputable infants who insisted on bathing in the canals, and the boarders. The boarders were at the moment six in number; Peter made seven. The great difficulty with the boarders, Peggy told him, was to make them pay. They had so little money, and such a constitutional reluctance⁶ to spend that little on their board.  
"The poor things," said Peggy, who had a sympathetic heart. "I'm sure I'm sorry for them, and I hate to ask them for it. But one's got to try and live."
 
She was drying Illuminato (baptized in that name by his father's desire, but by his mother called Micky) before the stove in the great dining-room. Illuminato had just tumbled off the bottom step into the water, and had been fished out by his uncle Peter; he was three, and had humorous, screwed-up eyes and a wide mouth like a frog's, so that Hilary, who detested⁷ ugliness, could really hardly be fond of him. Peggy was; but then Peggy always had more sense of humour than Hilary.
 
A boarder looked in to see if lunch was ready. It was not, but Peggy began preparations by screaming melodiously⁸ for Teresina. They heard the boarder sigh. He was a tall young man with inspired eyes and oily hair. Peter had observed him the night before, with some interest.
 
"That's Guy Vyvian," Peggy told him, looking for Illuminato's dryer⁹ suit in the china cupboard.
 
"Fancy," said Peter.
 
"Yes," said Peggy, pulling out a garment and dropping a plate out of its folds on the polished marble floor. "There now! Micky, you're a tiresome¹⁰ little ape and I don't love you. Guy Vyvian's an ape, too, entirely¹¹; his one merit is that he writes for 'The Gem¹²,' so that Hilary can take the rent he won't pay out of the money he gives him for his articles. It works out pretty well, on the whole, I fancy; they're neither of them good at paying, so it saves them both bother. ("È pronto, Teresina?" "Subito, subito," cried Teresina from the kitchen.) "I can't abide¹³ Vyvian," Peggy resumed. "The babies hate him, and he makes himself horrid¹⁴ to everyone, and lets Rhoda Johnson grovel¹⁵ to him, and stares at the stains on the table-cloth, as if his own nails weren't worse, and turns up his nose at the food. Poor little Rhoda! You saw her? The little thin girl with a cough, who hangs on Vyvian's words and blushes when her mother speaks. She's English governess to the Marchesa Azzareto's children. Mrs. Johnson's a jolly old soul; I'm fond of her; she's the best of the boarders, by a lot. Now, precious, if you tumble in again this morning, you shall sit next to Mr. Vyvian at dinner. You go and tell the others that from me. It isn't respectable, the way you all go on. Here's the minestra at last."
 
Teresina, clattering¹⁶ about the marble floor with the minestra, screamed "Pronto," very loud, and the boarders trailed in one by one. First came Mr. Guy Vyvian, sauntering with resignedly lifted brows, and looking as if it ought to have been ready a long time ago; he was followed by Mrs. Johnson, a stout¹⁷ and pleasant lady, who looked as if she was only too delighted that it was ready now, and the more the better; her young daughter, Rhoda, wearing a floppy¹⁸ smocked frock and no collar but a bead¹⁹ necklace, coughed behind her; she looked pale and fatigued²⁰, and as if it didn't matter in the least if it was never ready at all. She was being talked to by a round-faced, fluffy-haired lady in a green dress and pince-nez, who took an interest in the development of her deplorably uncultured young mind—a Miss Barnett, who was painting pictures to illustrate²¹ a book to be called "Venice, Her Spirit." The great hope for young Rhoda, both Miss Barnett and Mr. Vyvian felt, was to widen the gulf²² between her and her unspeakable mother. They, who quarrelled about everything else, were united in this enterprise. The method adopted was to snub Mrs. Johnson whenever she spoke²³. That was no doubt why, as Peggy had told Peter, Rhoda blushed on those frequent occasions.
 
The party was completed by a very young curate, and an elderly spinster with mittens²⁴ and many ailments²⁵, the symptoms of which she lucidly²⁶ specified²⁷ in a refined undertone to any lady who would listen; with gentlemen, however, she was most discreet²⁸, except with the curate, who complained that his cloth was no protection. Finally Hilary came in and took the head of the table, and Peggy and the children took the other end. Peter found himself between Mrs. Johnson and Miss Barnett, and opposite Mr. Vyvian and Rhoda.
 
Mrs. Johnson began to be nice to him at once, in her cheery way.
 
"Know Venice?" and when Peter said, "Not yet," she told him, "Ah, you'll like it, I know. So pleasant as it is. Particlerly for young people. It gives me rheumatics, so much damp about. But my gel Rhoder is that fond of it. Spends all her spare time—not as she's got much, poor gel—in the gall'ries and that. Art, you know. She goes in for it, Rhoder does. I don't, now. I'm a stupid old thing, as they'll all tell you." She nodded cheerfully and inclusively at Mr. Vyvian and Rhoda and Miss Barnett. They did not notice. Vyvian, toying disgustedly with his burnt minestra, was saying in his contemptuous voice, "Of course, if you like that, you may as well like the Frari monuments at once and have done."
 
Rhoda was crimson²⁹; she had made another mistake. Miss Barnett, who disputed the office of mentor³⁰ with Vyvian, whom she jealously disliked, broke in, in her cheery chirp³¹, "I don't agree with you, Mr. Vyvian. I consider it a very fine example of Carpaccio's later style; I think you will find that some good critics are with me." She addressed Peter, ignoring the intervening solidity of Mrs. Johnson. "Do you support me, Mr. Margerison?"
 
"I've not seen it yet," Peter said rather timidly. "It sounds very nice."
 
Miss Barnett gave him a rather contemptuous look through her pince-nez and turned to Hilary.
 
"Lor!" whispered Mrs. Johnson to Peter. "They do get so excited about pictures. Just like that they go on all day, squabblin' and peckin' each other. Always at Rhoder they are too, tellin' her she must think this and mustn't think that, till the poor gel don't know if she's on her head or her heels. She don't like me to interfere³², or it's all I can do sometimes not to put in my word and say, 'You stick to it, Rhoder my dear; you stand up to 'em and your mother'll back you.' But Rhoder don't like that. 'Mother,' she says, quite sharp, 'Mother, you don't know a thing about Art, and they do. You let be, and don't put me to shame before my friends.' That's what she'd like to say, anyhow, if she's too good a gel to say it. Rhoder's ashamed of my ignorance, that's what it is." This was a furtive³³ whisper, for Peter's ear alone. Having thus unburdened herself Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat noisily and said very loud, "An' what do you think of St. Mark's?" That was a sensible and intelligent question, and she hoped Rhoda heard.
 
Peter said he thought it was very nice. That Rhoda certainly heard, and she looked at him with a curious expression, in which hope predominated. Was this brother of the Margerisons another fool, worse than her? Would he perhaps make her folly³⁴ shine almost like wisdom by comparison? She exchanged a glance with Vyvian; it was extraordinarily³⁵ sweet to be able to do that; so many glances had been exchanged àpropos of her remarks between Vyvian and Miss Barnett. But here was a young man who thought St. Mark's was very nice. "The dear Duomo!" Miss Barnett murmured, protecting it from Tourist Insolence³⁶.
 
Mrs. Johnson agreed enthusiastically with Peter.
 
"I call it just sweet. You should see it on a Sunday, Mr. Margerison—Mr. Peter, as I should say, shouldn't I?—all the flags flying, and the sun shining on the gilt³⁷ front an' all, and the band playing in the square; an' inside half a dozen services all at once, and the incense³⁹ floatin' everywhere. Not as I'm partial to incense; it makes me feel a bit squeamish—and Miss Gould there tells me it affects her similarly, don't it, Miss Gould? Incense, I say—don't it give you funny feelin's within? Seem to upset you, as it were?"
 
Miss Gould, disturbed in her intimate conversation with the curate, held up mittened⁴⁰ hands in deprecating horror, either at the delicacy⁴¹ of the question called across the table with gentlemen present, or at the memory it called up in her of the funny feelings within.
 
Mrs. Johnson took it as that, and nodded. "Just like me, she is, in that way. But I like to see the worship goin' on, all the same. Popish, you know, of course," she added, and then, bethinking herself, "But perhaps you're a Roman, Mr. Peter, like your dear brother and sister? Well, Roman or no Roman, I always say as how Mrs. Margerison is one of the best. A dear, cheery soul, as has hardships to contend with; and if she finds the comforts of religion in graven images an' a bead necklace, who am I to say her no?"
 
"Peggy," said Hilary wearily across the table, "Illuminato is making a little beast of himself. Put him out."
 
Peggy scrubbed Illuminato's bullet head dry with her handkerchief (it had been lying in his minestra bowl), slapped him lightly on the hands, and said absently, "Don't worry poor Daddy, who's so tired." She was wishing that the risotto had been boiled a little; one gathered from the hardness of the rice that that process had been omitted. Vyvian, who was talking shop with Hilary, sighed deeply and laid down his fork. He wondered why he ever came in to lunch. One could get a much better one nearly as cheap at a restaurant.
 
Miss Barnett, with an air of wishing to find out how bad a fool Peter was, leaned across Mrs. Johnson and said, "What are you to Venice, Mr. Margerison, and Venice to you? What, I mean, are you going to get out of her? Which of her aspects do you especially approach? She has so infinitely⁴² many, you know. What, in fact, is your connecting link?" She waited with some interest for what Peter would say. She had not yet "placed" him.
 
Peter said, "Oh, well ... I look at things, you know ... much the same as anyone else, I expect. And I go in gondolas⁴³; and then there are the things one would like to buy."
 
Mrs. Johnson approved this. "Lovely, ain't they! Only one never has the money to spend."
 
"I watch other people spending theirs," said Peter, "which is the next best thing, I suppose ... I'm sorry I'm stupid, Miss Barnett—but it's all so jolly that I don't like to be invidious."
 
"Do you write?" she enquired⁴⁴.
 
"Sometimes," he admitted. "You're illustrating⁴⁵ a book about Venice, aren't you? That must be awfully⁴⁶ interesting."
 
"I am trying," she said, "to catch the most elusive⁴⁷ thing in the world—the Spirit of Venice. It breaks my heart, the pursuit. Just round the corner, always; you know Browning's 'Love in a Life'?
 
Heart, fear nothing, for heart, thou shalt find her,
Next time herself!—not the trouble behind her ...
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest;—who cares? ...
It's like that with me and my Venice. It hurts rather—but I have to go on."
 
"You shouldn't, my dear," Mrs. Johnson murmured soothingly⁴⁸. "I'm sure you should be careful. We mustn't play tricks with our constitutions."
 
Rhoda kicked Peter under the table in mistake for her mother, and never discovered the error.
 
"Can you tell me," Miss Barnett added abruptly⁴⁹, in her cheerful voice, "where it hides?"
 
Peter looked helpful and intelligent, and endeared himself to her thereby⁵⁰. She thought him a sympathetic young man, with possibilities, probably undeveloped.
 
Vyvian, who regarded Miss Barnett and "Venice, Her Spirit," with contemptuous jealousy⁵¹, thought that Rhoda was paying them too much attention, and effectually called her away by saying, "If you care to come with me to the Schiavoni, I can better explain to you what I mean."
 
Rhoda kindled⁵² and flushed and looked suddenly pretty. Peter heard a smothered⁵³ sigh on his left.
 
"I don't like it," Mrs. Johnson murmured to him. "No, I don't. If it was you, now, as offered to take her—But there, I daresay you wouldn't be clever enough to suit Rhoder; she's so partic'lar. You and me, now—we get on very well; seems as if we liked to talk on the same subjects, as it were; but Rhoder's different. When we go about together, it's always, 'Mother, not so loud! Oh, mother, you mustn't! Mother, that ain't really beautiful at all, and you're givin' of us away. Mother, folks are listening.' Let 'em listen is what I say. They won't hear anything that could hurt 'em from me. But Rhoder's so quiet; she hates a bit of notice. Not that she minds when she's with him; he talks away at the top of his voice, and folks do turn an' listen—I've seen 'em. But I suppose that's clever talk, so Rhoder don't mind."
 
She raised her voice from the thick and cautious whisper which she thought suitable for these remarks, and addressed Peggy.
 
"Well, we've had a good dinner, my dear—plenty of it, if the rice was a bit underdone."
 
"A grain," Miss Gould was murmuring to the curate, "a single grain would have had unspeakable effects...."
 
Peggy was endeavouring to comb Caterina's exceedingly tangled⁵⁴ locks with the fingers of one hand, while with the other she slapped Silvio's (Larry's) bare and muddy feet to make him take them off the table-cloth. Not that they made much difference to the condition of the table-cloth; but still, there are conventions.
 
"It is a disgrace," Hilary remarked mechanically, "that my children can't behave like civilised beings at a meal ... Peter, what are you going to do this afternoon?"
 
The boarders rose. Mrs. Johnson patted Peter approvingly on the arm, and said, "I'm glad to of had the pleasure. One day we'll go out together, you and me. Seem as if we look at things from the same point of view, as it were. You mayn't be so clever as some, but you suit me. Now, my dear, I'm goin' to help you about the house a bit. The saloon wants dustin', I noticed."
 
Peggy sighed and said she was sure it did, and Teresina was hopeless, and Mrs. Johnson was really too kind, but it was a shame to bother her, and the saloon could go another while yet. She was struggling with the children's bibs and rather preoccupied⁵⁵.
 
The boarders went out to pursue their several avocations⁵⁶; Rhoda and Mr. Vyvian to the church of San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, that Mr. Vyvian might the better explain what he meant; Miss Barnett, round-about and cheerful, sketch-book in hand, to hunt for "Venice, Her Spirit," in the Pescaria; Miss Gould to lie down on her bed and recover from lunch; the curate to take the air and photographs for his magic lantern lectures to be delivered in the parish-room at home; and Mrs. Johnson to find a feather broom.
 
Hilary sat down and lit a cigar, and Illuminato crawled about his legs.
 
"I'm going out with Leslie," said Peter. "We're going to call on the prince and see the goblet² and begin the haggling⁵⁷. We must haggle⁵⁸, though as a matter of fact Leslie means to have it at any price. It must be a perfectly⁵⁹ ripping thing.... Now let me have a number of 'The Gem' to read. I've not seen it yet, you know."
 
"It's very dull, my dear," Peggy murmured, rinsing⁶⁰ water over the place on the table-cloth where Silvio's feet had been.
 
Hilary was gazing into the frog-like countenance⁶¹ of his youngest son. It gave him a disappointment ever new, that Illuminato should be so plain. "But your mother's handsome, frog," he murmured, "and I'm not worse than my neighbours to look at." (But he knew he was better than most of them). "Let's hope you have intellect to make up. Now crawl to your uncle Peter, since you want to."
 
Illuminato did want to. He adored his uncle Peter.
 
"The Gem, Peter?" said Hilary. "Bother the Gem. As Peggy remarks, it's very dull, and you won't like it. I don't know that I want you to read it, to say the truth."
 
Peter was in the act of doing so. He had found three torn pages of it on the floor. He was reading an article called "Osele." Hilary glanced at it, with the slight nervous frown frequent with him.
 
"What have you got hold of?... Oh, that." His frown seemed to relax a little. "I really don't recommend the thing for your entertainment, Peter. It'll bore you. I have to provide two things—food for the interested visitor, and guidance for Lord Evelyn's mania⁶² for purchasing."
 
"So I am gathering," Peter said. "I'm reading about osele, marked with the Mocenigo rose. Signor Antonio Sardi seems to be a man worth a visit. I must take Leslie there. That's just the sort of thing he likes. And sixteenth-century visiting cards. Yes, he'd like those too. By all means we'll go to your friend Sardi. You wrote this, I suppose?"
 
Hilary nodded. His white nervous fingers played on the arm of his chair. It seemed to be something of an ordeal⁶³ to him, this first introduction of Peter to the Gem.
 
Peggy, assisting Teresina to bundle the crockery off the table, shot a swift glance at the group—at Hilary lying back smoking, with slightly knitted forehead, one unsteady hand playing on his chair; at Peter sitting on the marble floor with the torn fragments of paper in his hands and Illuminato astride on his knee. Peggy's grey, Irish eyes were at the moment a little speculative⁶⁴, touched with a dispassionate curiosity and a good deal of sisterly and wifely and maternal⁶⁵ and slightly compassionate⁶⁶ affection. She was so fond of them all, the dear babes.
 
Peter had gone on from osele to ivory plaques⁶⁸. He was not quite so much interested in reading about them because he knew more about them for himself, but he took down the name of a dealer⁶⁹ who had, according to the Gem, some good specimens⁷⁰, and said he should take Leslie there too.
 
Hilary got up rather suddenly, and jerked his cigar away into a corner (marble floors are useful in some ways) and said, "Is Leslie going to buy the whole place up? I'm sick of these wealthy Jews. They're ruining Venice. Buying all the palaces, you know. I suppose Leslie'll be wanting to do that next. There's altogether too much buying in this forsaken⁷¹ world. Why can't people admire without wanting to acquire? Lord Evelyn can't. The squandering⁷² old fool; he's ruining himself over things he's too blind even to look at properly. And this Leslie of yours, who can't even appreciate, still must get and have, of course; and the more he gets the more he wants. Can't you stop him, Peter? It's such a monstrous⁷³ exhibition of the vice³⁸ of the age."
 
"It's not my profession to stop him," Peter said. "And, after all, why shouldn't they? If it makes them happy—well—" His finality conveyed his creed⁷⁴; if it makes them happy, what else is there? To be happy is to have reached the goal. Peter was a little sad about Hilary, who seemed as far as ever from that goal. Why? Peter wondered. Couldn't one be happy in this lovable water-city, which had, after all, green ways of shadow and gloom between the peeling brick walls of ancient houses, and, beyond, the broad spaces of the sea? Couldn't one be happy here even if the babies did poise⁷⁵ muddy feet on a table-cloth, not, after all, otherwise clean; and even if the poor boarders wouldn't pay their rent and the rich Jews would buy palaces and plaques? Bother the vice of the age, thought Peter, as he crossed the sun-bathed piazza⁷⁶ and suddenly smelt⁷⁷ the sea. There surely never was such a jolly world made as this, which had Venice in it for laughter and breathless wonder and delight, and her Duomo shining like a jewel.
 
"An' the sun shinin' on the gilt front an' all," murmured Peter. "I call it just sweet."
 
He went in (he was to meet Leslie there), and the soft dusk rippled⁷⁸ about him, and beyond the great pillars stretched the limitless, hazy⁷⁹ horizons of a dream.
 
Presently Leslie came. He had an open "Stones of Venice" in his hand, and said, "Now for those mosaics⁸⁰." Leslie was a business-like person, who wasted no time. So they started on the mosaics, and did them for an hour. Leslie said, "Good. Capital," with the sober, painstaking⁸¹, conscientious⁸² appreciation⁸³ he was wont⁸⁴ to bestow⁸⁵ on unpurchasable excellence⁸⁶; and Peter said, "How jolly," and felt glad that there were some excellences⁸⁷ unpurchasable even by rich Jews.
 
They then went to the Accademia and looked at pictures. There Leslie had a clue to merit. "Anything on hinges, I presume," he remarked, "is worth inspection⁸⁸. Only why don't they hinge more of the good ones? They ought to give us a hint; they really ought. How's a man to be sure he's on the right tack⁸⁹?"
 
After an hour of that they went to see the prince who had the goblet. Half an hour's conversation with him, and the goblet belonged to Leslie. It was a glorious thing of deep blue glass and translucent⁹⁰ enamel⁹¹ and silver, with the Berovieri signature cut on it. Peter looked at it much as he had seen a woman in the Duomo look up at her Lady's shrine⁹², much as Rodney had looked on the illumined reality behind the dreaming silver world.
 
Peter said, "My word, suppose it broke!" It was natural that he should think of that; things so often broke. Only that morning his gold watch had broken, in Illuminato's active hands. Only that afternoon his bootlace had broken, and he had had none to replace it because Caterina had been sailing his other boots in the canal. Peter sighed over the lovely and brittle⁹³ world.
 
Then he and Leslie visited Signor Sardi's shop and looked at osele and sixteenth-century visiting cards. Peter said he knew nothing about either personally, but quoted Hilary in the Gem, to Leslie's satisfaction.
 
"Your brother's a good man," said Leslie. "Knows what's what, doesn't he? If he says these are good osele, we may take it that they are good osele, though we don't know one osele from another. That's right, isn't it?"
 
Peter said he supposed it was, if one wanted osele at all, which personally he didn't care about; but one never knew, of course, what might come in useful. Anyhow Leslie bought some, and a visiting card belonging to the Count Amadeo Vasari, which gave him much satisfaction. Then they visited the person who, the Gem had said, had good plaques, and inspected them critically. Then they had tea at Sant' Ortes' tearoom, and then Peter went home.
 
Hilary, who was looking worried, said, "Lord Evelyn wants us to dine with him to-night," and passed Peter a note in delicate, shaky handwriting.
 
"Good," said Peter. Hilary wore a bored look and said, "I suppose we must go," and then proceeded to question Peter concerning Leslie's shopping adventures. He seemed on the whole more interested in the purchase of osele than of the Berovieri goblet.
 
"But," said Peter presently, "your plaque⁶⁷ friend wasn't in form to-day. He had only shams⁹⁴. Rather bright shams, but still—So we didn't get any, which, I suppose, will please you to hear. Leslie was disappointed. I told your friend we would look in on a better day, when he had some of the real thing. He wasn't pleased. I expect he passes off numbers of those things on people as antiques. You ought to qualify your remarks in the Gem, Hilary—add that Signor Leroni has to be cautiously dealt with—or you'll be letting the uncritical plaque-buyer through rather badly."
 
"I daresay they can look after themselves," Hilary said, easily; and Peggy added:
 
"After all, so long as they are uncritical, it can't matter to them what sort of a plaque they get!" which of course, was one point of view.