"What do you mean? I don't like being pulled about."

"You know what tune that is? That's the 'Wedding March.'"

"Who's going to be married? Not you."

"I don't know so much about that. At all events I am in love. The
sensation is delicious--like an ice or a glass of Chartreuse. Real
love--all the others were coarse passions--I feel it here, the
genuine article. You would not believe that I could fall in love."

"Listen to me," said Lizzie. "You wouldn't talk like that if you were
in love."

"I always talk; it relieves me. You have no idea how nice she is; so
frail, so white--a white blonde, a Seraphita. But you haven't read
Balzac; you do not know those white women of the North. '_Plus
blanche que la blanche hermine_,' etc. So pure is she that I cannot
think of kissing her without sensations of sacrilege. My lips are not
pure enough for hers. I would I were chaste. I never was chaste."

Mike laughed and chattered of everything. Words came from him like
flour from a mill.

The _Pilgrim_ was published on Wednesday. Wednesday was the day,
therefore, for walking in the Park; for lunching out; for driving in
hansoms. Like a fish on the crest of a wave he surveyed
London--multitudinous London, circulating about him; and he smiled
with pleasure when he caught sight of trees spreading their summer
green upon the curling whiteness of the clouds. He loved the Park.