A Room with a View: Navigating Social Complexities in Italy and England

A room with a view. Chapter 1. The Bertoini. The senora had no business to do it, said Miss Bartlett. No business

at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms looking into a

courtyard and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy. And a cochney, besides, said Lucy,

who had been further saddened by the senora's unexpected accent. It might be

London. She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table, at the row of white bottles of

water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people, at the portraits of the late Queen and the late

poet laurate that hung behind the English people heavily framed at the notice of the English church, Reverend

Cuthbert Eager, Ma Oxon, that was the only other decoration of the wall. Charlotte, don't you feel too that we

might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is ones being so

tired. This meat has surely been used for soup, said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. I want so to see the

Arno. The rooms the senora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The senora had no business to do

it at all. Oh, it is a shame. Any nook does for me, Miss Bartlett continued. But it does seem hard that you shouldn't

have a view. Lucy felt that she had been selfish. Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me. Of course, you must look over the

Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front. You must have it, said Miss Bartlett, part of whose

traveling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother, a piece of generosity to which she made many attackful

illusion. No, no, you must have it. I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me,

Lucy. She would never forgive me. The lady's voices grew animated, and if the sad truth be owned, a little peevish.

They were tired and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbors

interchange glances and one of them, one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad, lent forward over the table

and actually intruded into their argument. He said, "I have a view. I have a view." Miss Bartlett was

startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before

speaking and often did not find out that they would do till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill- bred

even before she glanced at him. He was an old man of heavy build with a fair shaven face and large eyes. There was

something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of sinility. What exactly it was, Miss

Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed onto his clothes. These did not attract her. He

was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when

he spoke to her and then said, "A view. Oh, of you. How delightful a view is." "This is

my son," said the old man. His name's George. He has a view, too. Ah, said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was

about to speak. What I mean, he continued, is that you can have our rooms and we'll have

yours. We'll change. The better class of tourist was shocked at this and sympathized with the

newcomers. Miss Bartlett in reply opened her mouth as little as possible and said, "Thank

you very much indeed. That is out of the question." "Why?" said the old man with both fists on the table. "Because it is

quite out of the question, thank you. You see, we don't like to take," began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.

"But why?" He persisted. Women like looking at a view, men don't. And he thumped with his fists like a

naughty child and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them." "It's so obvious they should have the rooms,"

said the son. "There's nothing else to say." He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed

and sorrowful. Lucy too was perplexed, but she saw that they were in for what is known as quite

a scene, and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill- bred tourists spoke, the contest widened and deep until it

dealt not with rooms and views, but with, well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not

realized before. Now the old men attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently. Why should

she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.

Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of

brutality. It was impossible to snub anyone so gross. Her face reened with

displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?" And two little old ladies who were

sitting further up the table with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs looked back clearly indicating "We are

not. We are gentile. "Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again

with the meat that she had once centured. Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite. "Eat your

dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. Tomorrow we will make a

change. Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted

and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully

apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet,

exclaiming, "Oh, oh, why, it's Mr. B. Oh, how perfectly

lovely. Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. Oh, Miss Bartlett said with more

restraint. How do you do, Mr. BB? I expect that you have forgotten us, Miss Bartlett and Miss Honey Church, who

were at Tumbridge Wells when you helped the vicer of St. Peter's that very cold Easter. The clergyman, who had the heir

of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward

pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy. "I am so glad to see you," said the girl,

who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had

permitted it. "Just fancy how small the world is." Summer Street 2 makes it so specially

funny. Miss Honey Church lives in the parish of Summer Street, said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, and she

happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living. Yes, I heard from mother so

last week. She didn't know that I knew you at Tumbbridge Wells, but I wrote back at once and I said, "Mr. BB is

quite right," said the clergyman. I move into the rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to

such a charming neighborhood. Oh, how glad I am. The name of our house is Windy

Corner. Mr. BB bowed. There is mother and me generally and my brother, though it's not often we get him to ch. The

church is rather far off. I mean, Lucy, dearest, let Mr. BB eat his dinner. I am eating it. Thank you and enjoying it. He

preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his

sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been

there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field.

Don't neglect the country round, his advice concluded. the first fine afternoon drive up to

Fiasela and round by setting Nano or something of that sort. No, cried a voice from the top of the table. Mr. BB,

you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Praau. That lady looks so clever, whispered Miss Bartlett

to her cousin. We are in luck. And indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told

them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a

vellum blott, how much the place would grow upon them. The pension Beertoini had decided almost enthusiastically that

they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind lady smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of

the clever lady crying Pto. They must go to Pto. That place is too sweetly squalid

for words. I love it. I revel in shaking off the traml of respectability as you know.

The young man named George glanced at the clever lady and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and

his father did not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure

that anyone should be left in the cold, and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous

little bow. The father did not see it. The son acknowledged it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and

smiling. He seemed to be smiling across something. She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared

through the curtains. curtains which smokeote one in the face and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them

stood the unreliable Senora, bowing good evening to her guests, and supported by Eny, her little boy, and Victor, her

daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cochnney to convey the grace and geneiality of the

South. And even more curious was the drawing room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsberry

boarding house. Was this really Italy? Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed armchair which had

the color and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. BB and as she spoke her long narrow head drove

backwards and forwards slowly, regularly as though she were demolishing some invisible

obstacle. We are most grateful to you, she was saying. The first evening means so much. When you arrived, we were in

for a peculiarly moise court. Dr. He expressed his regret. Do you by any chance know the name of an old man

who sat opposite us at dinner? Emerson, is he a friend of yours? We are friendly as one is in

pensions. Then I will say no more. He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.

I am, as it were, she concluded, the chaperon of my young cousin Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her

under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the

best. You acted very naturally, said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added, all the same, I don't

think much harm would have come of accepting. No harm, of course, but we could not be

under an obligation. He is rather a peculiar man. Again, he hesitated and then said

gently, "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show

gratitude. He has the merit, if it is one, of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he

thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being

polite. It is so difficult, at least I find it difficult to understand people who speak the truth. Lucy was pleased

and said, "I was hoping that he was nice. I do so always hope that people will be nice. I think he is nice and

tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance. And so I expect, I

may say, I hope you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here, he

not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners. I don't mean by that that he has bad manners,

and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our

depressing senora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it. Am I to conclude, said Miss Bartlett, that he is

a socialist? Mr. BB accepted the convenient word, not without a slight

twitching of the lips. And presumably he has brought up his son to be a socialist, too. I hardly know George,

for he hasn't learned to talk yet. He seems a nice creature and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his

father's mannerisms and it is quite possible that he too may be a socialist. Oh, you relieve me, said Miss

Bartlett. So, you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and

suspicious? Not at all, he answered. I never suggested that. But ought I not to apologize at all events for my apparent

rudeness? He replied with some irritation that it would be quite unnecessary and got up from his seat to

go to the smoking room. Was I a boore? said Miss Bartlett as soon as he had disappeared. Why didn't you talk

Lucy? He prefers young people. I'm sure I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening

as well as all dinner time. He is nice, exclaimed Lucy. Just what I remember. He seems to

see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman. My dear

Lucia, well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh? Mr. BB laughs just like an ordinary man.

Funny girl. How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. BB. I'm sure she will, and so will

Freddy. I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve. It is the fashionable world. I am used to Tumbbridge Wells,

where we are all hopelessly behind the times. Yes, said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the

air. But whether the disapproval was of herself or of Mr. BB, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of

the narrow world at Tumbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but

as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sulously denied disapproving of anyone and added, "I am

afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought, "I must have

been selfish or unkind. I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte being

poor." Fortunately, one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignely, now approached

and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. BB had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently

about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her

sister's health, the necessity of closing the bedroom windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water

bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were perhaps more worthy of attention than

the high discourse upon Gs and Gibines, which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real

catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is

one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. But here you are as safe as an

England. Senora Bertellini is so English. Yet our rooms smell, said poor Lucy. We dread going to bed. Ah, then

you look into the court. She sighed. If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful. "We were so sorry for you at

dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly, he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. BB has just been scolding

me for my suspicious nature." "Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account." "Of course," said the

little old lady, and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look to Mure,

but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home, or at all events. She had not

noticed it. About old Mr. Emerson, I hardly know. No, he is not tactful yet. Have you ever noticed that there are

people who do things which are most indelicate and yet at the same time beautiful? Beautiful, said Miss

Bartlett, puzzled at the word. Are not beauty and delicacy the same? So one would have thought, said the other

helplessly. But things are so difficult, I sometimes think. She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. BB

reappeared, looking extremely pleasant, Miss Bartlett, he cried. It's all right about the

rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him

to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased. Oh, Charlotte, cried Lucy to

her cousin. We must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be. Miss Bartlett was

silent. I fear, said Mr. VBE after a pause that I have been a fishious. I must apologize for my

interference. Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply, "My own wishes, dearest

Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at

Florence when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen

out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. BB, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer,

and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she

spoke. It was heard all over the drawing room, and silenced the GS and the Giblines. The clergymen, inwardly

cursing the female sex, bowed and departed with her message. Remember Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I

do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that at all events. Mr. BB was back, saying rather

nervously. Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead. The young men gazed down on the

three ladies who felt seated on the floor. So low were their chairs. My father, he said, is in his bath, so

you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon

as he comes out. Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong and first

"Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. BB and to the secret delight of Lucy." Poor young

man, said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone. How angry he is with his father about the

rooms. It is all he can do to keep polite. In half an hour or so, your rooms will be ready, said Mr. B. Then,

looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms to write up his philosophic diary.

Oh dear, breathe the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the

apartment. Gentlemen sometimes do not realize, her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand, and a

conversation developed, in which gentlemen, who did not thoroughly realize, played a principal part. Lucy,

not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baker's handbook to northern

Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine history, for she was determined to enjoy

herself on the Morrow. Thus the half hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh and said,

"I think one might venture now." "No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move." how

you do do everything said Lucy naturally dear it is my affair but I would like to

help you no dear Charlotte's energy and her unselfishness she had been thus all her

life but really on this Italian tour she was surpassing herself so Lucy felt or strove to feel

and yet there was a rebellious spirit spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less

delicate and more beautiful. At all events she entered her own room without any feeling of joy. "I

want to explain," said Miss Bartlett, why it is that I have taken the largest room. "Naturally, of course, I should

have given it to you, but I happen to know that it belongs to the young men, and I was sure your mother would not

like it." Lucy was bewildered. If you are to accept a favor, it is more suitable you should be under an

obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world in my small way, and I know where things lead to.

However, Mr. BB is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this. Mother wouldn't mind, I'm sure, said

Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues. Miss Bartlett only sighed and enveloped

her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached

her own room, she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old men who had enabled her

to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the Cypresses of San Miniato, and the foothills of the Aenines, black

against the rising moon. Miss Bartlett in her room fastened the window shutters and locked the door and then made a tour

of the apartment to see where the cupboards led and whether there were any ooliets or secret

entrances. It was then that she saw pinned up over the wash stand a sheet of paper on which was scrolled an enormous

note of interrogation. Nothing more. "What does it mean?" she thought, and she examined

it carefully by the light of a candle. meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, obnoxious, portentous

with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do

so, since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully

and put it between two pieces of blotting paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the

room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed. Chapter 2. In Santa Crochi with no

Baker, it was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room with a floor of red tiles

which look clean though they are not, with a painted ceiling where on pink griffins and blue amarini sport in a

forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in

unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite, and close

below the Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road. Over the river, men were at work with spades and sees on

the sandy foreshore, and on the river was a boat also diligently employed for some mysterious end. An electric tram

came rushing underneath the window. No one was inside it except one tourist, but its platforms were overflowing with

Italians who preferred to stand. Children tried to hang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat

in their faces to make them let go. Then soldiers appeared, good-looking, undersized men, wearing each a knapsack

covered with mangy fur, and a great coat, which had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers,

looking foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turning somersaults in time with the band. The

tram car became entangled in their ranks, and moved on painfully like a caterpillar in a swarm of ants. One of

the little boys fell down, and some white bulocks came out of an archway. Indeed, if it had not been for

the good advice of an old man who was selling button hooks, the road might never have got clear. Over such

trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the traveler who has gone to Italy to study the tactile

values of Jado, or the corruption of the papacy, may return, remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women

who live under it. So it was as well that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented on Lucy's

leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window before she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten

herself, or the best of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready, her cousin had done her breakfast and was

listening to the clever lady among the crumbs. A conversation then ensued on not unfamiliar

lines. Miss Bartlett was, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend the morning settling in,

unless Lucy would at all like to go out. Lucy would rather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence, but of

course she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Of course, she would accompany Lucy

everywhere. Oh, certainly not. Lucy would stop with her cousin. Oh, no. That would never do. Oh, yes. At this point,

the clever lady broke in. If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you, I do assure you that you can neglect the good

person. Being English, Miss Honey Church will be perfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine,

Contessa Baranchelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send a maid to school with them, she lets them go in

sailor hats instead. Everyone takes them for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained tightly

behind. Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa Barelli's daughters. She was determined to take

Lucy herself, her head not being so very bad. The clever lady then said that she was going to spend a long morning in

Santa Crochi, and if Lucy would come too, she would be delighted. I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honey

Church, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure. Lucy said that this was most

kind, and at once opened the Baker to see where Santa Crochi was. Tut tut. Miss Lucy, I hope we shall soon

emancipate you from Beder. He does but touch the surface of things. As to the true Italy, he does not even dream of

it. The true Italy is only to be found by patient observation. This sounded very

interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming

at last. The cochnney senora and her works had vanished like a bad dream. Miss Lavish, for that was the clever

lady's name, turned to the right along the sunny lung. Arno, how delightfully warm. But a wine down the side streets

cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte Allegraier, particularly interesting, mentioned by

Dante San Miniato. Beautiful as well as interesting. The crucifix that kissed a murderer, Miss Honeyurch, would remember

the story. The men on the river were fishing. Untrue. But then, so is most information. Then Miss Lavish darted

under the archway of the white bulocks, and she stopped, and she cried. A smell? A true Florentine smell? Every city, let

me teach you, has its own smell? Is it a very nice smell? Said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to

dirt. One doesn't come to Italy for niceness, was the retort. One comes for life.

Bonjouro. Buong jouro bowing right and left. Look at that adorable wine cart. How the driver stares at us, dear simple

soul. So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence, short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten,

though without a kitten's grace. It was a treat for the girl to be with anyone so clever and so cheerful, and a

blue military cloak such as an Italian officer wears only increased the sense of

festivity. Bonjouro, take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy, you will never repent of a

little civility to your inferiors. That is the true democracy. Though I am a real radical as

well. There, now you're shocked. Indeed, I'm not, exclaimed Lucy. We are radicals, too. Out and out. My father

always voted for Mr. Gladstone until he was so dreadful about Ireland. I see. I see. And now you have

gone over to the enemy. Oh, please. If my father was alive, I am sure he would vote radical again now that Ireland is

all right. And as it is, the glass over our front door was broken last election. And Freddy is sure it was the Tories.

But mother says, "Nonsense. A Shameful. A manufacturing district, I suppose. No, in the Suriri

Hills about 5 mi from Dorking, looking over the wield." Miss Lavish seemed interested and slackened her trot. "What

a delightful part! I know it so well. It is full of the very nicest people. Do you know Sir Harrywway, a radical if

ever there was. Very well indeed. And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist. Why, she rents a field

of us. How funny, Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky and murmured. Oh, you have property in

Suriri. Hardly any, said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. only 30 acres, just the garden, all downhill and some

fields. Miss Lavish was not disgusted and said it was just the size of her aunt Suffach estate. Italy

receded. They tried to remember the last name of Lady Louisa, someone who had taken a house near Summer Street the

other year, but she had not liked it, which was odd of her. And just as Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off

and exclaimed, "Bless us. Bless us and save us. We've lost the way. Certainly, they had seemed a long time in reaching

Santa Crochi, the tower of which had been plainly visible from the landing window. But Miss Lavish had said so much

about knowing her Florence by heart that Lucy had followed her with no misgivings.

Lost. Lost. My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diet tribes, we have taken a wrong turning. how those horrid

conservatives would jeer at us. What are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what I call an

adventure. Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croachi, suggested as a possible solution that they should ask the way

there. Oh, but that is the word of a craven. And no, you are not not to look at your

Baker. Give it to me. I sh let you carry it. We will simply drift. Accordingly, they drifted through a series of those

gray brown streets, neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city

abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa, and became discontented

herself. For one ravishing moment, Italy appeared. She stood in the square of the enunziata and saw in the living

terracotta those divine babies whom no cheap reproduction can ever stale. There they stood with their shining limbs

bursting from the garments of charity and their strong white arms extended against cirlets of heaven. Lucy thought

she had never seen anything more beautiful. But Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her forward,

declaring that they were out of their path now by at least a mile. The hour was approaching at which the continental

breakfast begins, or rather ceases to tell, and the ladies bought some hot chestnut paste out of a little shop,

because it looked so typical. It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of

the great unknown. But it gave them strength to drift into another piaza, large and

dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black and white facade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it

dramatically. It was Santa Croachi. The adventure was over. Stop a minute. Let those two

people go on or I shall have to speak to them. I do detest conventional intercourse.

Nasty. They are going into the church, too. Oh, the British are abroad. We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They

have given us their rooms. They were so very kind. Look at their figures, laughed Miss Lavish. They walk through

my Italy like a pair of cows. It's very naughty of me, but I would like to set an examination paper at Dover and turn

back every tourist who couldn't pass it. What would you ask us? Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm, as if

to suggest that she at all events would get full marks. In this exalted mood, they reached the steps of the great

church and were about to enter it when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung up her arms, and cried, "There goes my

local color box. I must have a word with him." And in a moment she was away over the piaza, her military cloak flapping

in the wind. Nor did she slack in speed till she caught up an old man with white whiskers and nipped him playfully upon

the arm. Lucy waited for nearly 10 minutes. Then she began to get tired. The beggars worried her. The dust blew

in her eyes, and she remembered that a young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowly into the

piaza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was really almost too original. But at that moment, Miss

Lavish and her local color box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, both justiculating largely.

Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes, partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken

her Baker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her way about in

Santa Crochi? Her first morning was ruined, and she might never be in Florence again. A few minutes ago, she

had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that she was full of

originality. Now she entered the church depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember

whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a

wonderful building. But how like a barn, and how very cold. Of course, it contained fresco by jotto, in the

presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She

walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was

no one even to tell her which, of all the sepul slabs that paved the nave and transeps, was the one that was really

beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin. Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her,

and instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian notices, the notices that

forbade people to introduce dogs into the church, the notice that prayed people in the interest of health and out

of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves not to spit. She watched the tourists, their noses

were as red as their beters, so cold was Santa Crochi. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three papists, two he

babies and a sheab, who began their career by sousing each other with the holy water, and then proceeded to the

Machaveli memorial, dripping but hallowed, advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances. They

touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then

retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had

mistaken Machaveli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest heab

stumbled over one of the seul slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent

bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelet of turned

toes. Hateful bishop," exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in

death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be,

intolerable bishop." The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up,

dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. "Look at him," said Mr.

Emerson to Lucy. Here's a mess. A baby hurt, cold, and frightened. But what else can you expect from a church? The

child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy said it erected, collapsed with a roar.

Fortunately, an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. by some mysterious virtue

which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's backbone and imparted strength to his knees. He

stood, still jibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done

more than all the relics in the world." "I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow

creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe." He paused for a phrase. Nente, said the Italian lady, and

returned to her prayers. I'm not sure she understands English, suggested Lucy. In her chasen mood, she no longer

despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than

delicate, and if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That

woman understands everything," was Mr. Emerson's reply. But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you

through with the church? No, cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. I came here with Miss Lavish,

who was to explain everything, and just by the door. It is too bad she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a

time, I had to come in by myself. "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?"

said the son addressing the young lady for the first time. But Miss Lavish has even taken away

Baker. Beder said Mr. Emerson. I'm glad it's that you minded. It's worth minding the loss of a Baker.

That's worth minding. Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea and was not sure whether it would lead

her. If you've no Baker, said the son, you'd better join us. Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her

dignity. Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join onto

you. I really came to help with the child and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope

that you have not been put to any great inconvenience. My dear, said the old man gently, I think that you are repeating

what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy, but you are not

really. Stop being so tiresome and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a

real pleasure. Now this was abomably impertinent, and she ought to have been

furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it.

Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humor him. On the other hand, his son

was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It

was at him that she gazed before replying. "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Jottos that I want to see, if you

will kindly tell me which they are." The son nodded. With a look of somber satisfaction, he led the way to the

Peruti Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question

rightly. The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer

directing them how to worship Jado, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit. Remember he was

saying the facts about this church of Santa Crochi, how it was built by faith in the full fervor of medievalism before

any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Jotto in these fresco now unhappily ruined by

restoration is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more

majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little we feel avails knowledge and technical cleverness

against a man who truly feels. No, exclaimed Mr. Emerson in much too loud a voice for church. Remember

nothing of the sort. Built by faith indeed. That simply means the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the

fresco, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue. He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into

the sky like an air balloon. He was referring to the fresco of the ascension of St. John. Inside, the lecturer's

voice faltered, as well it might. The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to

be with these men, but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and so strange that she could not remember

how to behave. Now, did this happen or didn't it? Yes or no? George

replied. It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go up to heaven by myself and be pushed by

cherabs. And if I got there, I should like my friends to lean out of it just as they do here. You will never go up,

said his father. You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as

surely as our work survives. Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he

is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all. Pardon me, said a frigid voice. The chapel is somewhat

small for two parties. We will indeed you no longer. The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also

his flock, for they held per books as well as guide books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence.

Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the pension, Beertoini, Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine

Allen. Stop! cried Mr. Emerson. There's plenty of room for us all. Stop! The procession disappeared

without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel describing the life of St.

Francis. George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton Curit. George went into the next chapel and returned

saying perhaps he is. I don't remember. Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's that Mr.

Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexacious. I shall go and say we are

sorry. Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back. He will not come back, said George.

But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Reverend Cuthbert Eager. Lucy,

apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted the anxious, aggressive voice of the old

men, the curt injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contr as if it were a tragedy, was

listening also. "My father has that effect on nearly everyone," he informed her. "He will try to be kind.

I hope we all try, said she, smiling nervously, because we think it improves our

characters. But he is kind to people because he loves them and they find him out and are offended or

frightened. How silly of them, said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized, I think that a kind action

done tactfully. Tacked. He threw up his head in

disdain. Apparently, she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel.

For a young man his face was rugged, and until the shadows fell upon it hard and shadowed, it sprang into

tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome on the ceiling of the cyine chapel, carrying a burden of

acorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might only find solution in

the night. The feeling soon passed. It was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and

of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone

familiar to her. "Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquily. "But we have spoiled the pleasure of I don't know how

many people." "They won't come back." full of innate sympathy, quickness to perceive good in others, vision of the

brotherhood of men. Scraps of the lecture on St. Francis came floating round the partition wall. Don't let us

spoil yours, he continued to Lucy. Have you looked at those saints? Yes, said Lucy. They are lovely.

Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin? He did not know and suggested that they should try to

guess it. George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the old men wandered not unpleasantly about Santa

Crochi, which though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were also

beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old lady with her dog, and here and there a priest

modestly edging to his mass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched the

lecturer whose success he believed he had impaired and then he anxiously watched his son. Why will he look at

that fresco? He said uneasily. I saw nothing in it. I like Jotato, she replied. It is so wonderful

what they say about his tactile values, though I like things like the Dela Rabia babies better. So you ought. A baby is

worth a dozen saints, and my baby's worth the whole of paradise. And as far as I can see, he lives in hell. Lucy

again felt that this did not do. In hell, he repeated. He's

unhappy. Oh dear, said Lucy. How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to

give him? and think how he has been brought up free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men

to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy.

She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt

that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly.

"What are we to do with him?" he asked. He comes out for his holiday to Italy and behaves like that, like the little

child who ought to have been playing and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh, what did you say? Lucy

had made no suggestion. Suddenly, he said, "Now, don't be stupid over this. I don't

require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age,

and if you let yourself go, I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the

time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose. But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge

from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them

out in the sunlight, and know the meaning of them. By understanding George, you may learn

to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you. To this extraordinary speech, Lucy found no answer. I only

know what it is that's wrong with him, not why it is. And what is it? Asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing

tale. The old trouble things won't fit. What things? The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't. Oh, Mr.

Emerson, whatever do you mean? In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said.

From far, from eve and morning, and yan 12- winded sky, the stuff of life to knit me. Blue hither, here am I. George

and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds and that we shall return to

them that all life is perhaps a knot a tangle a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us

unhappy? Let us rather love one another and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world

sorrow. Miss Honey Church ascented. Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the

everlasting Y there is a yes, a transitory yes if you like, but a yes. Suddenly she laughed. Surely one ought

to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit because life was a tangle or a wind or a yes or

something. I'm very sorry, she cried. You'll think me unfeilling but but then she became

matronly. Oh, but your son wants employment. has he no particular hobby. Why, I

myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano, and collecting stamps did no end of good for my

brother. Perhaps Italy bores him. You ought to try the Alps or the lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched

her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her. She thought that her advice had impressed him, and that he was

thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all. She regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly.

Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago aesthetically before she lost

Beder. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached

his face in the shadow. He said, "Miss Bartlett." Oh, good gracious me, said Lucy,

suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. Where? Where? In the nave,

I see those gossiping little Miss Allen's must have. She checked herself. Poor girl, exploded Mr.

Emerson. Poor girl. She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself. Poor girl. I failed to

understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl. I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy and

having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there?

Without trying to invent it. Goodbye. Thank you both so much for all your

kindness. Ah, yes. There does come my cousin. A delightful morning. Santa Crochi is a wonderful church. She joined

her cousin. It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she

opened the piano. She was then no longer either differential or patronizing, no longer either a rebel or a slave. The

kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world. It will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have

alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play and shoots into the empiran without effort. Whilst we look

up, marveling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his

visions into human words and his experiences into human actions? Perhaps he cannot. Certainly he does not or does

so very seldom. Lucy had done so never. She was no dazzling executant. Her runs were not at all like strings of pearls,

and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate

young lady who performed so tragically on a summer's evening with a window open. Passion was there, but it could

not be easily labeled. It slipped between love and hatred and jealousy and all the furniture of the pictorial

style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great for she loved to play on the side of victory. Victory

of what and over what that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are

written tragic no one can gain say. Yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides. and Lucy had decided

that they should triumph. A very wet afternoon at the Bertoini permitted her to do the thing she really liked, and

after lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few people lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that

she made no reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She took no notice of Mr. Emerson

looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette

case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes. They were fingers caressing her

own, and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire. Mr. BBE sitting unnoticed in the window pondered

this illogical element in Miss Honey Church and recalled the occasion at Tbridge Wells when he had discovered it.

It was at one of those entertainments where the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled with a

respectful audience and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish under the opaces of their vicor sang or recited or

imitated the drawing of a champagne cork. Among the promised items was Miss Honey Church piano beethoven and Mr. BB

was wondering whether it would be Adelaide or the march of the ruins of Athens when his composure was disturbed

by the opening bars of Opus 3. He was in suspense all through the introduction, for not until the pace quickens does one

know what the performer intends. With the roar of the opening theme, he knew that things were going extraordinarily.

In the chords that herald the conclusion, he heard the hammer strokes of victory. He was glad that she only

played the first movement, for he could have paid no attention to the winding intricacies of the measures of 916. The

audience clapped, no less respectful. It was Mr. BB who started the stamping. It was all that one could do. Who is she?

He asked the vicer afterwards. cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not consider her choice of a peace happy.

Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in his appeal that it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like that

which if anything disturbs. Introduce me. She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises of your

sermon. My sermon? Cried Mr. B. Why ever did she listen to it? When he was introduced, he understood why. For Miss

Honeyurch, disjoined from her music stool, was only a young lady with a quantity of dark hair and a very pretty,

pale, undeveloped face. She loved going to concerts. She loved stopping with her cousin. She loved iced coffee and

merangues. He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also. But before he left Tunbridge Wells, he made a remark

to the vicer, which he now made to Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved dreilily towards him. "If Miss

Honey Church ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting both for us and for her." Lucy at once re-entered

daily life. Oh, what a funny thing. Someone said just the same to mother and she said she trusted I should never live

a duet. Doesn't Mrs. Honey Church like music? She doesn't mind it, but she doesn't like one to get excited over

anything. She thinks I am silly about it. She thinks I can't make out. Once, you know, I said that I liked my own

playing better than anyone's. She has never got over it. Of course, I didn't mean that I played well. I only

meant. Of course, said he, wondering why she bothered to explain. Music, said Lucy, as if attempting some generality.

She could not complete it, and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet. The whole life of the south was disorganized

and the most graceful Hey, "What is it about?" "It will be a novel," replied Mr. BBE, "Dealing with

modern Italy. Let me refer you for an account to Miss Catherine Allen, who uses words herself more admirably than

anyone I know. I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We started such friends, but I don't think she ought to

have run away with Baker that morning in Santa Croachi. Charlotte was most annoyed at finding me practically alone,

and so I couldn't help being a little annoyed with Miss Lavish. The two ladies, at all events, have made it up.

He was interested in the sudden friendship between women so apparently dissimilar as Miss Bartlett and Miss

Lavish. They were always in each other's company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss Lavish, he believed he understood,

but Miss Bartlett might reveal unknown depths of strangeness, though not perhaps of meaning. was Italy deflecting

her from the path of Prim Chaperon, which he had assigned to her at Tunbridge Wells. All his life he had

loved to study maiden ladies. They were his specialty, and his profession had provided him with ample opportunities

for the work. Girls like Lucy were charming to look at, but Mr. BBE was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat

chilly in his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather than enthralled. Lucy, for the

third time, said that poor Charlotte would be sobbed. The Ano was rising in flood, washing away the traces of the

little carts upon the foreshore. But in the southwest there had appeared a dull haze of yellow, which might mean better

weather if it did not mean worse. She opened the window to inspect, and a cold blast entered the room, drawing a

plaintive cry from Miss Catherine Allen, who entered at the same moment by the door. Oh, dear Miss Honey Church, you

will catch a chill. And Mr. BB here, besides, who would suppose this is Italy? There is my sister actually

nursing the hot water can. No comforts or proper provisions. She sidled towards them and

sat down, self-conscious as she always was on entering a room which contained one man or a man and one woman. I could

hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honey Church, though I was in my room with a door shut. Door shut indeed. Most

necessary. No one has the least idea of privacy in this country, and one person catches it from another." Lucy answered

suitably. Mr. BB was not able to tell the ladies of his adventure at Medina, where the chambermaid burst in upon him

in his bath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Ephene sonia." He contented himself with

saying, "I quite agree with you, Miss Allan. The Italians are a most unpleasant people. They pry everywhere.

They see everything and they know what we want before we know it ourselves. We are at their mercy. They read our

thoughts. They foretell our desires. From the cab driver down to to jotto, they turn us inside out, and I resent

it. Yet in their heart of hearts they are. How superficial. They have no conception of the intellectual life. How

right is Senora Bertilini who exclaimed to me the other day, "Oh, Mr. Bi, if you knew what I suffer over the children's

education. I won't a my little vicarier taught by a ignorant Italian, what can't explain nothing?" Miss Allan did not

follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. BBE,

having expected better things from a clergyman whose head was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed,

who would have supposed that tolerance, sympathy, and a sense of humor would inhabit that militant form? In the midst

of her satisfaction, she continued to sidle, and at last the cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her,

she extracted a gunmetal cigarette case on which were powdered in turquoise the initials E L. That belongs to Lavish,

said the clergyman. A good fellow, Lavish, but I wish she'd start a pipe. Oh, Mr. B, said Miss Allen, divided

between awe and mirth. Indeed, though it is dreadful for her to smoke, it is not quite as dreadful as you suppose. She

took to it practically in despair after her life's work was carried away in a landslip. Surely that makes it more

excusable. "What was that?" asked Lucy. Mr. BB sat back complacently, and Miss Allen began as follows. It was a novel,

and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a very nice novel. It is so sad when people who have abilities misuse them,

and I must say, they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the grotto of the Calvary at the

Capuccini Hotel at a Malfi while she went for a little ink. She said, "Can I have a little ink, please?" But you know

what Italians are. And meanwhile the grotto fell roaring onto the beach and the saddest thing of all is that she

cannot remember what she has written. The poor thing was very ill after it and so got tempted into cigarettes. It is a

great secret but I am glad to say that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day that

she had got up all the local color. This novel is to be about modern Italy. The other was historical but that she could

not start till she had an idea. First she tried Peruja for an inspiration then she came here. This must on no account

get round and so cheerful through it all. I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone even

if you do not approve of them. Miss Allan was always thus being charitable against her better judgment. A delicate

pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods

there sometimes rise odors reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized

hurriedly for her toleration. All the same, she is a little too, I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most

strangely when the Emersons arrived. Mr. BB smiled as Miss Allen plunged into our dear queen. It was horrible

speaking. I reminded her how the queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was

dumbfounded and made no reply. But unluckily Mr. Emerson overheard this part and called in his deep voice,

"Quite so, quite so. I honor the woman for her Irish visit. The woman, I tell things so badly, but you see what a

tangle we were in by this time, all on account of s having been mentioned in the first place." But that was not all.

After dinner, Miss Lavish actually came up and said, "Miss Allan, I am going into the smoking room to talk to those

two nice men. Come too." Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence

to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all university men, except one

who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travelers. Let me finish the story, said

Mr. BBE, who had returned. Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said, I shall go alone. She

went. At the end of 5 minutes, she returned unobtrusively with a green bay board and began playing patience.

Whatever happened, cried Lucy. No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell. And Mr.

Emerson does not think it worth telling. Mr. BB, old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know. Mr. B

laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. No, but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so

silly. And then I do not mind him. Miss Allan, what do you think? Is he nice? The little old lady shook her head and

sighed disapprovingly. Mr. BB, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by

saying, "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice," Miss Allan, after that business of the violets.