Lucy Honey Church's Journey: Music, Society, and Inner Conflict

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. 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 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. BBE, 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 Anunn 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 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 Baze

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 Bertilini 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 weighing 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 attempt. It was

unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained

to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior to men. It was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire

others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves indirectly by means of tact and a spotless name. A lady

could accomplish much. But if she rushed into the fry herself, she would be first centured, then despised, and finally

ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this point. There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady.

The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She reigned in many and early

Victorian castle, and was queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of

business, sweet to pay her honor when she has cooked our dinner well. But war. A radiant crust built around the

central fires, spinning towards the receding heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully

over the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy not because they are masculine,

but because they are alive. Before the show breaks up, she would like to drop the August title of the eternal woman

and go there as her transitory self. Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to which

she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious, nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction

annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was

peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved, as she might

not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Bacelli's birth of Venus.

Venus being a pity spoiled the picture otherwise so charming and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. A

pity in art of course signified the nude. Georgion's tempesta the idolino some of the cyine fresco and the

epoxyominos were added to it. She felt a little calmer then and bought for Angelico's coronation jotto's ascension

of St. John, some Delarabia babies and some Guido Reni Madanas, for her taste was Catholic, and she extended

uncritical approval to every well-known name. But though she spent nearly seven L, the gates of liberty seemed still

unopened. She was conscious of her discontent, it was new to her to be conscious of it. The world, she thought,

is certainly full of beautiful things. If only I could come across them. It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeyurch

disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical and touchy. "Nothing ever

happens to me," she reflected as she entered the patza senoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly

familiar to her. "The great square was in shadow. The sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already

unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreily to the men and sats who idled

together on its marge. The loia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but

immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality. The hour that

is when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was

happening to him and rest content. Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace,

which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer

supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized

her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen.

Two Italians by the lodia had been bickering about a debt. They had cried.

They sparred at each other and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned. He bent towards Lucy with a

look of interest as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red

came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this

extraordinary man from her and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking

at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd. Across something. Even as she caught sight of him, he grew

dim. The palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell onto her softly, slowly, nolessly, and the sky fell with it. she

thought. "Oh, what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured and opened her eyes. George Emerson still

looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and low, one man was stabbed, and another held

her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Ufazy arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke

and began to dust his knees. She repeated, "Oh, what have I done? You fainted. I I am very sorry. How are you

now?" "Perfectly well." "Absolutely well," and she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point

in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from

the fountain, they had never ceased, rangily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. How very

kind you have been. I might have hurt myself falling, but now I am well. I can go alone. Thank you. His hand was still

extended. Oh, my photographs, she exclaimed suddenly. What photographs? I bought some photographs

at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square. She looked at him cautiously. Would you add to your

Fine. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose

without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a

cabman signaled to them, they refused him, and the murderer tried to kiss him. You say how very odd Italians are and

gave himself up to the police. Mr. BB was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather

childish. When my cousin and I were at the pity yesterday, what was that? He had thrown something into the stream.

What did you throw in? Things I didn't want, he said crossly. Mr. Emerson. Well, where are the

photographs? He was silent. I believe it was my photographs that you threw away. I didn't know what to do with them, he

cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. They were

covered with blood. there. I'm glad I've told you. And all the time we were making conversation, I was wondering

what to do with them. He pointed downream. They've gone. The river swirled under the bridge. I did mind

them so, and one is so foolish. It seemed better that they should go out to the sea. I don't know. I may just mean

that they frightened me. Then the boy verged into a man. For something tremendous has happened. I must face it

without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died. Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. It

has happened, he repeated. And I mean to find out what it is. Mr. Emerson. He turned towards her frowning

as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. I want to ask you something before we go in.

They were close to their pension. She stopped and lent her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did

likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position. It is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal

comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying, "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own

thoughts. I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life. I cannot think what came over me. I nearly fainted myself,

he said. But she felt that her attitude repelled him. Well, I owe you a thousand apologies. Oh, all right. And this is

the real point. You know how silly people are gossiping. Ladies especially, I am afraid. You understand what I mean?

I'm afraid I don't. I mean, would you not mention it to anyone? My foolish behavior. Your behavior? Oh, yes. All

right. All right. Thank you so much. And would you? She could not carry her request any further. The river was

rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had

told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by

idol gossip. He was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind. He might even have a high opinion of her, but he

lacked chivalry. His thoughts, like his behavior, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him and would

you and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself. Avert. Chapter 5. Possibilities of a pleasant

outing. It was a family saying that you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn. She was perfectly pleasant

and sensible over Lucy's adventure. found the abridged account of it quite adequate and paid suitable tribute to

the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dio

coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impedent and dissuaded to search their reticules for

provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately, Miss Lavish was a match for anyone. For good or for

evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the piaza or later on by the

embankment. Mr. BBE indeed noticing her startled eyes at dinnertime, had again passed to himself the remark of too much

Beethoven, but he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude

oppressed her. She was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others, or at all events contradicted. It was

too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning, she took decisive action.

There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. BB was walking up to the Tory Dell Gallow with the Emersons

and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeyurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself.

She had been there in the rain the previous afternoon, but she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated

shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties, all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish

this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte," cried the girl with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr.

B, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather. Very well, dear, said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of

pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte now

as always. But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousins,

and they started off along the lung Ano. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and color. Miss

Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was, "How I do wish

Freddy and your mother could see this, too." Lucy fidgeted. It was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where

she did. Look, Lucia. Oh, you are watching for the Tory Dell Gallow party. I feared you would repent you of your

choice. Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle, queer and odd, the kind of

thing one could not write down easily on paper, but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were

preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Tory Del Gallow, since she could not unravel the tangle, she must

take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations.

But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with a complacency

of fate, led her from the river to the patza senoria. She could not have believed that stones, a lodia, a

fountain, a palace tower would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The

exact sight of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand.

She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought

would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you," said Miss Bartlett, "after your despair of yesterday. What a

fortunate thing." Aha! Miss Honey Church, come you hear I am in luck. Now you are to tell me absolutely everything

that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol, "but perhaps you would rather not." "I'm

sorry. If you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of

disapproval. It is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. It is I who am sorry, said Miss Lavish. We literary

hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry. She marched

cheerfully to the fountain and back and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the piaza

since 8:00 collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable. But of course, one

I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me

and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat, and I insist, and I have always held most

strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.

There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. "Then the cousins wished success to her labors, and walked

slowly away across the square. "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett. That last remark struck

me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel. Lucy asented. At present her great aim was not to get put

into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an

anenu. She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word, continued Miss Bartlett slowly. None but

the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human

interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman. Mr. Eager. Why, how nice. What a

pleasant surprise. Ah, not for me, said the chaplain blandly, for I have been watching you and Miss Honeyurch for

quite a little time. We were chatting to Miss Lavish. His brow contracted, so I saw, "Were you

indeed?" The last remark was made to a vendor of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. I am

about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honey Church be disposed to join me in a drive someday this week? A

drive in the hills? We might go up by Fasila and back by Setigano. There is a point on that road where we could get

down and have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view then of Florence is most beautiful, far better than the

hackneed view of Fasila. It is the view that Allesio Baldo Vanetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. That man

had a decided feeling for landscape decidedly. But who looks at it today? Ah, the world is too much for us. Miss

Bartlett had not heard of Allesio Baldoetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a

member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with

Bakers, who had learned to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by

private influence galleries which were closed to them. living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats,

others in Renaissance villas on fasilous slope. They read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that

intimate knowledge, or rather perception of Florence, which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of

cook. Therefore, an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. between the two sections of his flock.

He was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and

give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. T They asented. This very square, so I am

told, witnessed yesterday the most sorted of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savinarola,

there is something portentous in such desecration. Portentous and humiliating. Humiliating indeed, said Miss Bartlett.

Miss Honey Church happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it. She glanced at Lucy

proudly. "And how came we to have you here?" asked the chaplain paternally. "Miss Bartlett's recent liberalism oozed

away at the question. Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine. I left her

unshaperoned. So you were here alone, Miss Honey Church. His voice suggested sympathetic reproof, but at the same

time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully

towards her to catch her reply. Practically one of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,

said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver. For her also it must have been a terrible experience.

I trust that neither of you was at all that it was not in your immediate proximity. Of the many things Lucy was

noticing today, not the least remarkable was this, the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after

blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure. He died by the fountain, I believe, was her reply. And

you and your friend were over at the lodia. That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the

disgraceful illustrations which the gutter press. This man is a public nuisance. He knows that I am a resident

perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views. Surely the vendor of photographs was in

league with Lucy, in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett

and Mr. eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views. This is

too much, cried the chaplain, striking petulently at one of Fry Angelico's angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from

the vendor. The book, it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed. Willingly would I purchase,

began Miss Bartlett. Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain's guidance, they

selected many hideous presents and momentos. Fid little picture frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry. Other

little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels and were carving out of oak. A blotting book of vellum, a Dante

of the same material, cheap mosaic brooches which the maids next Christmas would never tell from real. Pins, pots,

heraldic saucers, brown art photographs, aeros and psyche in alabaster, St. Peter to match, all of which would have cost

less in London. This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened both by

Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager. She knew not why, and as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough, ceased to respect

them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture

as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte, as

for Charlotte, she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her. It was impossible to love her. The son

of a laborer, I happened to know it for a fact, a mechanic of some sort himself when he was young. Then he took to

writing for the socialistic press. I came across him at Brixton. They were talking about the

Emersons. How wonderfully people rise in these days, sighed Miss Bartlett, fingering a model of the leaning tower

of Pisa. Generally, replied Mr. Eager, one has only sympathy for their success, the desire for education and for social

advance. In these things, there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very

willing to see out here in Florence, little as they would make of it. Is he a journalist now? Miss Bartlett asked. He

is not. He made an advantageous marriage. He uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning and ended with a

sigh. Oh, so he has a wife. Dead. Miss Bartlett. Dead. I wonder. Yes, I wonder how he has the affronttery to look me in

the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Crochi when

he was with Miss Honey Church, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub. What? cried Lucy

flushing. Exposure hissed Mr. Eager. He tried to change the subject, but in scoring a dramatic point, he had

interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. "Lucy, though she

wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word." "Do you mean," she asked,

"that he is an irreligious man?" We know that already, Lucy. Dear, said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin's

penetration. I should be astonished if you knew all the boy, an innocent child at the time. I will exclude. God knows

what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him. Perhaps, said Miss Bartlett, it is something that

we had better not hear. To speak plainly, said Mr. Eager. It is. I will say no more. For the first time, Lucy's

rebellious thoughts swept out in words. For the first time in her life. You have said very little. It was my intention to

say very little, was his frigid reply. He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation. She

turned towards him from the shop counter, her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow and the sudden

strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him. "Murder, if you want to know," he cried angrily.

"That man murdered his wife." "How?" she retorted. To all intents and purposes, he murdered her that day in Santa

Crochi. Did they say anything against me? Not a word, Mr. Eager. Not a single word. Oh, I thought they had been

lieling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them. I'm not defending them,

said Lucy, losing her courage and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. They're nothing to me. How could you

think she was defending them, said Miss Bartlett, much discomforted by the unpleasant scene? The shopman was

possibly listening. She will find it difficult, for that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God. The addition

of God was striking, but the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might

have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the leaning tower and led the

way into the Great. They were now in the newspaper room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the

central table, heedless of punch and the graphic, trying to answer or at all events to formulate the questions

rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people

thought and did the most extraordinary things. Murder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude

to another. Were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye?

the power perhaps to evoke passions good and bad and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment. Happy Charlotte, who though

greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did, who could conjecture with

admirable delicacy where things might lead to, but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she

was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose bag which hung in chased

concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy. It must only be

brooached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped, she murmured whether it is Mr. BB who forgot

to tell Mr. Eager or Mr. eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out

altogether, which they could scarcely do. But in any case, we must be prepared. It is you they really want. I

am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse

carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is. It is indeed," replied the girl with a gravity that sounded

sympathetic. "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle and buttoning up her dress.

"I don't know what I think, nor what I want." "Oh, dear Lucy, I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the

word, and as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth tomorrow." Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and

pondered over the offer. There were letters for her at the bureau, one from her brother, full of athletics and

biology, one from her mother, delightful as only her mother's letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which

had been bought for yellow and were coming up puse of the new parlaid who had watered the ferns with essence of

lemonade of the semi- detached cottages which were ruining summer street and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otwway.

She recalled the free pleasant life of her home where she was allowed to do everything and where nothing ever

happened to her. The road up through the pinewoods, the clean drawing room, the view over the Sussex wheeled, all hung

before her, bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveler

returns. And the news, asked Miss Bartlett. Mrs. Vice and her son have gone to Rome, said Lucy, giving the news

that interested her least. Do you know the vices? Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Patza

Senoria. They're nice people. The vices. So clever. My idea of what's really clever. Don't you long to be in Rome. I

die for it. The Piaza Senoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no fresco, no glittering

walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance, unless we believe in a presiding genius of places,

the statues that relieve its severity suggest not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth,

but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and thus Nelda, they have done or

suffered something. And though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not

only in the solitude of nature might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god. Charlotte, cried the girls suddenly,

here's an idea. What if we popped off to Rome tomorrow, straight to the Vic's hotel, for I do know what I want. I'm

sick of Florence. No, you said you'd go to the ends of the earth. Do do Miss Bartlett with equal vivacity replied,

"Oh, you droll person, pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?" They passed together through the gaunt beauty

of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion. It was Fyetin who drove them to Fasila that memorable

day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master's horses up the stony hill. Mr. BB

recognized him at once. Neither the ages of faith nor the age of doubt had touched him. He was Fatin in Tuskanyany

driving a cab. And it was Pphanie whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister.

Praphanie, tall and slender and pale, returning with a spring to her mother's cottage, and still shading her eyes from

the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard

against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favor,

the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god. Fyetin at once slipped the left rain over her head, thus enabling

himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr. Eager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw

nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the

carriage were old Mr. Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish, for a dreadful thing had happened. Mr. BBE, without consulting

Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party, and though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how

the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round, they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish

got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. BBE, followed on behind. It was hard on the

poor chaplain to have his party carry thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it, was

now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. BBE, though unreliable, was a man of

parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God, they should enter no

villa at his introduction. Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive

ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately

asleep, thanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of fate,

but for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner, he had shown that he wished to continue

their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and

suspected that he did know, and this frightened her, for the real event, whatever it was, had taken place, not in

the lodia, but by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death, is pardonable. but to discuss it

afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that is an error not of a

startled emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blamew worthy, she thought, in their

joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without the

passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Tory

del Gallow. But each time that she avoided George, it became more imperative that she should avoid him

again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence

till she had made this expedition with him through the hills. Meanwhile, Mr. Eager held her in civil converse. Their

little tiff was over. So, Miss Honey Church, you are traveling as a student of art. Oh, dear me, no. Oh, no. Perhaps

as a student of human nature, interposed Miss Lavish, like myself. Oh, no. I am here as a tourist. Oh, indeed, said Mr.

Eager. Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists. Not a little

handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions

or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baker, their one anxiety to get done or through and go on

somewhere else. The result is they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the

American girl in punch who says, "Say papa, what did we see at Rome?" And the father replies, "Why? Guess Rome was the

place where we saw the Yoller dog." "There's traveling for you." "Ah." "I quite agree," said Miss Lavish,

who had several times tried to interrupt his mortant wit. "The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon

tourist is nothing less than a menace." Quite so. Now the English colony at Florence, Miss Honey Church, and it is

of considerable size, though of course not all equally. A few are here for trade, for example, but the greater part

are students. Lady Helen Levertock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing

her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand. No, do not stand. You will fall. She is very proud of that

thick hedge inside. Perfect seclusion. One might have gone back 600 years. Some critics believe that her garden was the

scene of the Dameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not? It does indeed, cried Miss Lavish. Tell me,

where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day? But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeyurch that on

the right lived Mr. someone something an American of the best type so rare and that the somebody else's were farther

down the hill. Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of meaty evil byways. He is working at Jistus Pletho.

Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear over the wall the electric tram squealing up the new

road with its loads of hot dusty unintelligent tourists who are going to do fasila in an hour in order that they

may say they have been there. And I think, think, I think how little they think what lies so near them. During

this speech, the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy.

Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only

people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the piaza of Fiasela and into

the Setnano road. Piano. Piano, said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head. Venet senor ven ven cruned the

driver and whipped his horses up again. Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject

of Allesio Baldo Vanetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was

left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop, the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the

chaplain with a regularity of a machine. "Piano, piano," said he, with a martyed look at Lucy. An extra lurch made him

turn angrily in his seat. Fyetin, who for some time had been endeavoring to kiss Pphanie, had just succeeded. A

little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped. The

lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves. The boy was to lose his poorbir. The girl was immediately to get

down. She is my sister, said he. "Surely no," said Miss Lavish, her order visibly decreasing. The other carriage

had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. BBE called out that after this warning, the couple would be sure to behave

themselves properly. Leave them alone, Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. Do we find happiness

so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there to be driven by lovers? A king might envy us,

and if we part them, it's more like sacrilege than anything I know. Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying

that a crowd had begun to collect. Mr. Eager, who suffered from an overfluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was

determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep voiced

stream with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth, it resembled

nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain, which played ever higher and higher and quicker and quicker and more

and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. Senorina said the man to Lucy when the display had

ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy? Senorina echoed Praphanie in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the

other carriage. Why? For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Pphanie got down from the box. Victory

at last, said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again. It is not victory, said Mr.

Emerson. It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy. Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit

next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep and took up the matter warmly.

He commanded Lucy to agree with him. He shouted for support to his son. We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with

money. He has bargained to drive us and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul. Miss Lavish frowned. It is

hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character. He was not driving us well.

She said he jolted us. That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Uh-huh. He is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He

would like to throw us out. And most certainly he is justified and if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the

girl too. It doesn't do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo Demedi? Miss Lavish bristled. Most

certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo Iel Magnico or to Lorenzo Duke of Erbino or to Lorenzo surnamed

Lorenzino on account of his dimminionive stature? The Lord knows. Possibly he does know for I refer to Lorenzo the

poet. He wrote a line so I heard yesterday which runs like this. Don't go fighting against the spring. Mr. Eager

could not resist the opportunity for audition. War not with the may would render a correct meaning. The point is

we have wared with it. Look, he pointed to the Val Darno, which was visible far below them through the budding trees. 50

mi of spring, and we've come up to admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between spring in nature and

spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws

work eternally through both. No one encouraged him to talk. Presently, Mr. eager gave a signal for the carriages to

stop and marshaled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheater full of terrace steps

and misty olives now lay between them and the heights of Fazila and the road still following its curve was about to

sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plane. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes

and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Allesio Baldo Vanetti nearly 500 years before. He had ascended

it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of

ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Vald Darno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had

introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager

hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally

enthusiastic. But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Allesio Buloven Vanetti in your head, even if you have

remembered to look at them before starting, and the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.

The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equaled by their desire to go

different directions. Finally, they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. The Emersons

returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers, while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in

common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so

familiar to Lucy, they began to discuss, not Allesio Baldoveni, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George

Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered the railway. She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no

idea that it would be such a dreadful answer or she would not have asked him. Mr. BBE had turned the conversation so

cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him. The railway, gasped Miss Lavish.

Oh, but I shall die. Of course, it was the railway. She could not control her mirth. He is the image of a porter on on

the southeastern. Eleanor, be quiet, plucking at her vivacious companion.

Hush. They'll hear the Emersons. I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. Apoki. Eleanor. I'm sure it's all right,

put in Lucy. The Emersons won't hear, and they wouldn't mind if they did. Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.

Miss Honey Church listening, she said rather crossly. Poof! Woof! You naughty girl! Go away! Oh, Lucy, you ought to be

with Mr. Eager. I'm sure. I can't find them now, and I don't want to either. Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your

party. Please, I'd rather stop here with you. No, I agree, said Miss Lavish. It's like a school feast. The boys have

Then sit you down, said Miss Lavish. Observe my foresight. With many a smile, she produced two of those Macintosh

squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps. She sat on one. Who was to sit on

the other? Lucy, without a moment's doubt. Lucy, the ground will do for me. Really, I have not had rheumatism for

years. If I do feel it coming on, I shall stand. Imagine your mother's feelings if I let you sit in the wet in

your white linen. She sat down heavily, where the ground looked particularly moist. Here we are, all settled

delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner, it will not show so much being brown. Sit down, dear. You are too

unselfish. You don't assert yourself enough. She cleared her throat. Now, don't be alarmed. This isn't a cold.

It's the tiniest cough, and I have had it 3 days. It's nothing to do with sitting here at all. There was only one

way of treating the situation. At the end of 5 minutes, Lucy departed in search of Mr. BB and Mr. Eager.

Vanquished by the Macintosh Square, she addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages,

perfuming the cushions with cigars, the miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with

the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative. Dove, said Lucy, after much anxious thought. His face lit up.

Of course, he knew where not so far either. His arms swept three/4s of the horizon. He should just think he did

nowhere. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead and then pushed them towards her as if oozing with visible

extract of knowledge. More seemed necessary. What was the Italian for clergymen? Dove bony. Yuani, said she at

last. Good. Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings. He showed her his cigar. Uno Pu Piccolo was her next

remark, implying, "Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. B, the smaller of the two good men?" She was correct as

usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair,

remolded his hat, encouraged his mustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct

her. Italians are born knowing the way. It would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a

chessboard, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Anyone can find places, but

the finding of people is a gift from God. He only stopped once to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him

with real pleasure. In the company of this common man, the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time, she felt

the influence of spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully. Violets, like other things, existed in great profusion

there. Would she like to see them? Money wi he bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded

briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and

the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He

was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness.

Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her. "What is that?" There was a voice in the wood, in the distance

behind them, the voice of Mr. Eager. He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian's ignorance is sometimes more remarkable

than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was

forming at last. She could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills. "Echalo," he exclaimed. At the same

moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on

to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end. Courage, cried her companion, now

standing some 6 ft above. Courage and love. She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view, and

violets ran down in rivullets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the

tree stems, collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they

in such profusion. This terrace was the wellhead, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.

Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man. But he was not the good man that she had

expected. Good. Chapter 7. They return. Some complicated game had been playing up and down the

hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had

met them with a questioning eye. Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his

son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. BB, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the

factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them.

Not the great god Pan, who has been buried these 2,000 years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social

contractton and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. BB had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea basket,

which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr.

Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a Macintosh Square. Fyetin had lost the game. That last fact was

undeniable. He climbed onto the box, shivering with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad

weather. Let us go immediately, he told them. The seniorino will walk all the way. He will be ours, said Mr. B.

Apparently, I told him it was unwise. He would look no one in the face. Perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for

him. He alone had played skillfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their

intelligence. He alone had divined what things were and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message

that Lucy had received 5 days before from the lips of a dying man. Pphanie, who spends half her life in the grave,

she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly and perhaps too late. The

thoughts of a cab driver, however, just seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of

Miss Bartlett's opponents, but infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and

his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant. She had seen his black head

in the bushes. He might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace

belongs to the drawing room. It was of drawing room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards

towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her. Mr. Eager sat opposite trying to catch her eye. He was vaguely

suspicious. They spoke of Allesio Baldo Vanetti. Rain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled

together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash and Miss Lavish, who was nervous, screamed from

the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally. Courage,

Miss Honeyurch. Courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the

elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display is simply called into

existence to extinguish you or me? No. Of course. Even from the scientific standpoint, the chances against our