A Room with a View: Social Intrigue, Art, and Personal Growth in Florence

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 one's 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 ho, 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 a tactful 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 interchanged 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 sility.

What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to 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

tourists 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

deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with, well, with something quite different, whose

existence she had not realized before. Now the old man 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, why, it's Mr. BB. 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 Tbridge

Wells when you helped the vicar 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 too 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 Tundbridge

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 see it. 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 Fiasa and round by

Settingano or something of that sort. No, cried a voice from the top of the table. Mr. B, you are wrong. The first

fine afternoon your ladies must go to Pto. 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 Bertoini had decided almost enthusiastically that they would do.

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

crying, "Proto. 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 smoked 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

Enory, her little boy, and Victorer, 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, dear. 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 chaperone 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. BBE 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 boar? 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. BBE, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of

the narrow world at Tundbridge 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 Giblines, 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 in England. Senora Bertoini 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. BBE 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 demure, 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. BB 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 gels and the gibelines. The clergyman 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 man 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 end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight

of Mr. BBE and to the secret delight of Lucy. Poor young man, said Miss Barklet, 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," breathed 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 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 man, 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 man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno

and the cypresses of San Mñato 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 oottes 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 Amorini 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 seieves 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 a 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

Jotto, or the corruption of the papacy, may returning 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 Crochie

was. Toot toot. Miss Lucy, I hope we shall soon emancipate you from Baker. 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 wind down the side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte Alleg Gratzier. Particularly interesting,

mentioned by Dante San Miniato, beautiful as well as interesting. The crucifix that kissed a murderer, Miss

Honey Church, 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. Bonjouro. 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 miles from Doring,

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 Harry Otwway, 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 Siri? 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's 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 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 betaker. Give it to me. I sh 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 Enuniata 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 patza, 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 Crochi. The adventure was over. Stop a minute.

Let those two people go on or I shall have to speak to them intercourse. Nasty. They are going

into the church, too. Oh, the Britisher 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 gesticulating 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 sepocal 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 pernitious 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 a 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 sepul 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's upturned 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 erect it 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 chasened 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 on to 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 abominably 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 Jotto 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 Jotto, 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 than 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 incomode you no longer. The lecturer was

a clergyman and his audience must be also his flock for they held prayer 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

berellini, 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 man. 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 man, scraps of a 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 man 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 Jotto," she replied. "It is so wonderful what they

say about his tactile values, though I like things like the Delarabia 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. 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 mourning, 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 Allens 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

Croachi 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 the 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. BB, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical element in Miss Honey Church, and recalled the

occasion at Tundbridge 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 piece 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. VBE, 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 dreily towards him. If Miss Honeyurch 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 n "What is it about?" "It will be a

novel," replied Mr. B, "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 Beder that morning in Santa Crochi. 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 Tbridge 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. BB 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. B 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, "Effe 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 Bertalini who exclaimed to me the other day, "Oh, Mr. B, if you knew what I suffer over the children's

education. I won't a my little victory taught by a ignorant Italian, what can't explain nothing?" Miss Allen 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 Allen 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 an

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 Allen, after

that business of the violets. "Violets? Oh dear, who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A

pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croachi. Oh,

poor Miss Honey Church. It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do not like the Emersons. They are not

nice. Mr. BB smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertoalini society and the

effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented

intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Allens, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss

Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a

hazy account of her adventures in Santa Crochi, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly

concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their

private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent. He did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl. He

would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows are flimsy things,

whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the

Emersons were nice, not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't

they always waying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.

only once. Charlotte didn't like it and said something quite politely, of course. Most right of her. They don't

understand our ways. They must find their level. Mr. BB rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up

their attempt, if it was one, to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered

whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left. Some expedition perhaps with Lucy well

chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. BB's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories.

Evening approached while they chatted. The air became brighter. The colors on the trees and hills were purified and

the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streets.

Mr. BB was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as After Music. She had not really appreciated the

clergymen's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss Allen. Conversation was tedious. She wanted something big,

and she believed that it would have come to her on the windswept platform of an electric tram. This she might not