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"In a book?" | Miss Bartlett | like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And | for a moment he looked like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know | want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which | along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to | a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her | "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to | 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 Alessio Baldovinetti. 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to | they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book."<|quote|>"In a book?"</|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled | A Room With A View |
"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." | Lucy | a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you | he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss | believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I | but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find | But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in | Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed | 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 Alessio Baldovinetti. 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep | chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?"<|quote|>"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."</|quote|>"And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said | A Room With A View |
"And then?" | Miss Bartlett | book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what | in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was | slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to | near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far | miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence | Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition 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 Alessio Baldovinetti. 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly | be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."<|quote|>"And then?"</|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all | A Room With A View |
"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." | Lucy | nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, | book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to | those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so | and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm | dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. | She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had | 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 Alessio Baldovinetti. 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever | of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?"<|quote|>"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till | A Room With A View |
Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. | No speaker | you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," | schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so | really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to | near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury | to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the | dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers | 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 Alessio Baldovinetti. 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you | floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.</|quote|>"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all | A Room With A View |
"I want to be truthful," | Lucy | sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so | body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." | schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had | simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost | not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She | any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, | vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti. 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice | called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.<|quote|>"I want to be truthful,"</|quote|>she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at | A Room With A View |
she whispered. | No speaker | "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to | sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be | you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in | No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through | time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close | maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast | Alessio Baldovinetti. 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that | your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful,"<|quote|>she whispered.</|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, | A Room With A View |
"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." | Lucy | to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait | nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We | what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson | want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much | have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was | disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. | 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they | we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered.<|quote|>"It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."</|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest | A Room With A View |
"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." | Miss Bartlett | hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city | she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was | she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. | little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her | far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of | the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her | 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 Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This | may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."<|quote|>"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."</|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried | A Room With A View |
So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. | No speaker | before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I | We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't | her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, | for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not | repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had | fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits | from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally: "Courage, Miss Honeychurch, 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 being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. | Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room."<|quote|>So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.</|quote|>"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person | A Room With A View |
"At last," | Lucy | disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand | in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be | She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with | had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a | Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. | to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." | for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was | be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.<|quote|>"At last,"</|quote|>thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and | A Room With A View |
thought she, | No speaker | interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I | confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by | not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, | and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour | was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is | dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried | sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her | careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last,"<|quote|>thought she,</|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop | A Room With A View |
"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." | Lucy | all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to | would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music | much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. | Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all | Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great | the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to | is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to | In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she,<|quote|>"I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."</|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable | A Room With A View |
Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: | No speaker | mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all | come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. | unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She | she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the | the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" | me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to | Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?" "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed." "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented." "He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of | one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what."<|quote|>Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:</|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and | A Room With A View |
"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." | Miss Bartlett | usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door | and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane | a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions | mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, | snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She | just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. | may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push | but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:<|quote|>"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."</|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't | A Room With A View |
With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said | No speaker | good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be | and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for | the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can | sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy | happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him | No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, | of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her | me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I | A Room With A View |
"So what is to be done?" | Miss Bartlett | girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the | cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred | in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down | it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had | describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a | you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. | were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the | thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said<|quote|>"So what is to be done?"</|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen | A Room With A View |
She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. | No speaker | what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? | Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you | reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on | by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four | spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." | ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask | Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to | careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"<|quote|>She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.</|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it | A Room With A View |
"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." | Miss Bartlett | that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down | of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the | and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt | late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you | thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you | was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been | be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for | near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.<|quote|>"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."</|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day | A Room With A View |
The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. | No speaker | which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for | be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said | what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She | her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. | that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us | of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her | her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. | was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."<|quote|>The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.</|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, | A Room With A View |
"It has been raining for nearly four hours," | Lucy | the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss | bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How | which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished | was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" | the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and | ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning | and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and | her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.<|quote|>"It has been raining for nearly four hours,"</|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, | A Room With A View |
she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. | No speaker | raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to | of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My | bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to | is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor | hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther | Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I | fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts | vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours,"<|quote|>she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.</|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," | A Room With A View |
"How do you propose to silence him?" | Miss Bartlett | Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, | hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy | and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have | alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was | could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you | had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy | They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a | she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.<|quote|>"How do you propose to silence him?"</|quote|>"The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such | A Room With A View |
"The driver?" | Lucy | you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. | ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to | had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling | down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? | gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to | was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When | each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. | nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"<|quote|>"The driver?"</|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. | A Room With A View |
"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." | Miss Bartlett | to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up | remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I | since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will | black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I | "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, | snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have | It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt | usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."</|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what | A Room With A View |
Lucy began to pace up and down the room. | No speaker | girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said | him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very | to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. | damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do | ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made | sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, | past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring | last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."<|quote|>Lucy began to pace up and down the room.</|quote|>"I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he | A Room With A View |
"I don't understand," | Lucy | up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She | Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she | colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I | chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that | will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of | love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you | they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it | joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room.<|quote|>"I don't understand,"</|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is | A Room With A View |
she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. | No speaker | the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to | to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" | the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under | close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason | good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a | of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the | possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture | by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand,"<|quote|>she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.</|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate | A Room With A View |
"How are you going to stop him talking about it?" | Miss Bartlett | wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that | well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he | Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that | roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time | for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall | had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and | it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt | talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.<|quote|>"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"</|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it | A Room With A View |
"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." | Lucy | stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge | "How are you going to stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I | silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only | though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need | to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And | her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would | even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the | my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?"<|quote|>"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."</|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her | A Room With A View |
"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." | Miss Bartlett | thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under | feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor | to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one | ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents | to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask | discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was | accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that | some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."<|quote|>"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."</|quote|>"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she | A Room With A View |
"Exploits?" | Lucy | keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the | the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, | wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person | hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and | "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him | thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in | dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the | spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."<|quote|>"Exploits?"</|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men | A Room With A View |
cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. | No speaker | their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you | type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his | to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" | she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are | is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it | she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate | and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go | The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?"<|quote|>cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.</|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that | A Room With A View |
"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" | Miss Bartlett | wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at | to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had | going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are | the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine | which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure | again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. | hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not | of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.<|quote|>"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you | A Room With A View |
"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. | No speaker | extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. | liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to | "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to | going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as | the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and | about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do | river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did | of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"<|quote|>"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.</|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, | A Room With A View |
"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" | Miss Bartlett | time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's | said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought | Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you | that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am | since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he | a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which | thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her | had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.<|quote|>"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"</|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two | A Room With A View |
An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. | No speaker | do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to | on with our question. What do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett | I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There | here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice | dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you | dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push | as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great | to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"<|quote|>An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.</|quote|>"I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen | A Room With A View |
"I propose to speak to him," | Lucy | her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered | and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. | put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you | argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what | understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" | With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but | No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very | Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.<|quote|>"I propose to speak to him,"</|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning | A Room With A View |
said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. | No speaker | propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I | might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as | antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is | one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in | longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went | shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She | truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how | shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him,"<|quote|>said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.</|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly | A Room With A View |
"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." | Lucy | a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to | said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him | farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear | said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I | to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she | Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When | thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the | vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.<|quote|>"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."</|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again | A Room With A View |
"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" | Miss Bartlett | my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be | it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask | had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived | need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. | do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You | occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." | like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is | toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."<|quote|>"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"</|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, | A Room With A View |
"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." | Lucy | BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for | going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so | have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for | unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would | the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to | of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall | then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to | It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"<|quote|>"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."</|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever | A Room With A View |
"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" | Miss Bartlett | am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy | of him. But now I am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice | Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." | Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the | me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his | room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, | the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about | to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."<|quote|>"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses | A Room With A View |
"I can't think," | Lucy | arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in | example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett | young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't | to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said | man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would | were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were | to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at | There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we | A Room With A View |
said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. | No speaker | have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if | had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't | you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke | to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. | he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left | vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the | to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that | you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.</|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the | A Room With A View |
"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" | Miss Bartlett | question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy | made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, | take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the | or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of | wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she | last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing | easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and | "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.<|quote|>"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"</|quote|>"I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was | A Room With A View |
"I can't think," | Lucy | happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he | more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you | whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and | been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which | our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled | you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than | good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued | the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"<|quote|>"I can't think,"</|quote|>said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. | A Room With A View |
said Lucy again. | No speaker | hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how | would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I | does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes | him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. | do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, | silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler | Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in | reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think,"<|quote|>said Lucy again.</|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two | A Room With A View |
"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" | Miss Bartlett | can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. | if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't | and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she | I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that | to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon | driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by | already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, | chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again.<|quote|>"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"</|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to | A Room With A View |
"I hadn't time to think. You came." | Lucy | how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell | again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would | had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the | him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle | had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into | began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly | of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of | farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"<|quote|>"I hadn't time to think. You came."</|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one | A Room With A View |
"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" | Miss Bartlett | time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked | you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence | "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." | young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, | made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the | room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She | and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; | will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came."<|quote|>"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"</|quote|>"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, | A Room With A View |
"I should have--" | Lucy | what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke | won't you tell me now what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went | Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She | cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real | speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but | but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or | long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my | would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"<|quote|>"I should have--"</|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard | A Room With A View |
She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. | No speaker | have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, | me now what you would have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You | question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak | men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but | said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train | longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and | thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, | speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--"<|quote|>She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.</|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness | A Room With A View |
"Come away from the window, dear," | Miss Bartlett | what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will | darkness. She could not think what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." | to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, | what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult | going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora | intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those | be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." | them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.<|quote|>"Come away from the window, dear,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her | A Room With A View |
said Miss Bartlett. | No speaker | away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from | she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She | won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, | think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in | him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be | unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to | And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my | since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett.</|quote|>"You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face | A Room With A View |
"You will be seen from the road." | Miss Bartlett | window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in | done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could | me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, | gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry | silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss | met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. | divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will | A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.<|quote|>"You will be seen from the road."</|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the | A Room With A View |
Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. | No speaker | be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! | said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, | "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, | Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch | difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for | their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. | them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I | my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."<|quote|>Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.</|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together | A Room With A View |
"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." | Miss Bartlett | him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled | matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which | road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked | done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make | you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts | Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what | to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally | well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive.<|quote|>"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."</|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I | A Room With A View |
As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: | No speaker | men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push | There are still left some men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, | is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would | key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for | hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it | on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to | could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will | and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."<|quote|>As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:</|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy | A Room With A View |
"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." | Miss Bartlett | into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to | pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her | in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that | was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless | tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for | her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to | good brush to your hair." With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought | dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:<|quote|>"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."</|quote|>"What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and | A Room With A View |
"What train?" | Lucy | train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She | push to catch the morning train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. | still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had | only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. | and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping | Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, | cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn | "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."<|quote|>"What train?"</|quote|>"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I | A Room With A View |
"The train to Rome." | Miss Bartlett | we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves | catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the | some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She | women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes | the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, | a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well | placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden | can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?"<|quote|>"The train to Rome."</|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, | A Room With A View |
She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. | No speaker | train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to | but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora | reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much | Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for | went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she | alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of | Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own | had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome."<|quote|>She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.</|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these | A Room With A View |
"When does the train to Rome go?" | Lucy | as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would | received the announcement as easily as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face | upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't | He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to | she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with | his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! | not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble | here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.<|quote|>"When does the train to Rome go?"</|quote|>"At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty | A Room With A View |
"At eight." | Miss Bartlett | the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." | had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said | into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea | his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if | the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of | him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel | have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in | would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"<|quote|>"At eight."</|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that | A Room With A View |
"Signora Bertolini would be upset." | Lucy | to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said | given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to | gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, | insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the | dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which | BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is | do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem | gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight."<|quote|>"Signora Bertolini would be upset."</|quote|>"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" | A Room With A View |
"We must face that," | Miss Bartlett | "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking | to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had | be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra | a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, | will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute | "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I | of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like | he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset."<|quote|>"We must face that,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but | A Room With A View |
said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. | No speaker | upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay | eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." | catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired | God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious | the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing | be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone | all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. | that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.</|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; | A Room With A View |
"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." | Lucy | she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, | not liking to say that she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more | Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in | can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a | modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give | it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I | dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did | to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.<|quote|>"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."</|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not | A Room With A View |
"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" | Miss Bartlett | for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra | "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark | the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch | rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with | started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side | now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more | down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it | "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."<|quote|>"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"</|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only | A Room With A View |
"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." | Lucy | tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained | the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her | upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, | will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She | with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss | lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able | to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss | gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"<|quote|>"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."</|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified | A Room With A View |
After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: | No speaker | they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you | there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was | Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You | morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is | for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You | cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you | and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was | off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine."<|quote|>After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:</|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. | A Room With A View |
"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" | Miss Bartlett | said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard | in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter | took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a | she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might | train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She | a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could | unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do | have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:<|quote|>"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"</|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping | A Room With A View |
Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: | No speaker | will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you | long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have | the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of | felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and | move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss | yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I | deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. | still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"<|quote|>Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:</|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother | A Room With A View |
"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" | Lucy | a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, | relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very | love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together | before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more | by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping | upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never | which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." | for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:<|quote|>"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"</|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again | A Room With A View |
"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." | Miss Bartlett | I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed | do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of | pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. | and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I | books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again | will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both | might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want | hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"<|quote|>"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."</|quote|>"But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss | A Room With A View |
"But no--" | Lucy | vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite | know well how much I vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely | relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am | that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I | she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this | received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished | forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to | diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."<|quote|>"But no--"</|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own | A Room With A View |
Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. | No speaker | at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel | how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is | modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" | did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had | growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, | announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment | But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on | them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.</|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." | A Room With A View |
"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." | Miss Bartlett | of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was | assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more | you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You | in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she | was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is | to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge | going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the | Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.<|quote|>"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."</|quote|>"Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she | A Room With A View |
"Please--" | Lucy | pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that | uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to | martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had | do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled | never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally | the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him | you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August | said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things."<|quote|>"Please--"</|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, | A Room With A View |
"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." | Miss Bartlett | and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," | and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still | "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping | you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my | so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless | Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but | dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the | I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--"<|quote|>"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."</|quote|>"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At | A Room With A View |
"You mustn't say these things," | Lucy | these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still | had your own way about these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that | to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make | is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. | pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is | the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was | gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered | admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events."<|quote|>"You mustn't say these things,"</|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room | A Room With A View |
said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. | No speaker | "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," | these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she | often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." | had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here | you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she | when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world | made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally | or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things,"<|quote|>said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.</|quote|>"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I | A Room With A View |
"I have been a failure," | Miss Bartlett | continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she | other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of | not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It | uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I | her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any | Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which | he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay | train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.<|quote|>"I have been a failure,"</|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had | A Room With A View |
said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. | No speaker | "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; | continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to | more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it | pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this | she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of | ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those | you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for | go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.</|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and | A Room With A View |
"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." | Miss Bartlett | instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It | the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this | say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here | taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell | a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her | varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of | what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him | that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.<|quote|>"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."</|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the | A Room With A View |
"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." | Lucy | her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it | me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will | "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. | not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred | Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the | old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she | the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so | Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."<|quote|>"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."</|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved | A Room With A View |
"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" | Miss Bartlett | it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was | your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If | instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother | at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have | our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor | emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the | said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, | relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."<|quote|>"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"</|quote|>"Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked | A Room With A View |
"Every right." | Lucy | make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for | what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have | face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of | They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. | sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; | if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before | in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. | and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"<|quote|>"Every right."</|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to | A Room With A View |
"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." | Miss Bartlett | with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish | had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: | again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell | to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her | you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, | could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach | she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move | back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right."<|quote|>"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."</|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously | A Room With A View |
Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: | No speaker | do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of | this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her | rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally | to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss | home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition | with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was | We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," | Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."<|quote|>Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:</|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett | A Room With A View |
"Why need mother hear of it?" | Lucy | to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" | Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." | with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But | I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both | lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really | woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that | is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's | deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:<|quote|>"Why need mother hear of it?"</|quote|>"But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it | A Room With A View |
"But you tell her everything?" | Miss Bartlett | need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." | improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your | I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame | after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and | hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble | that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the | but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if | "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?"<|quote|>"But you tell her everything?"</|quote|>"I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not | A Room With A View |
"I suppose I do generally." | Lucy | "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your | need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred | sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I | will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own | them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked | her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that | him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without | too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"<|quote|>"I suppose I do generally."</|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that | A Room With A View |
"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." | Miss Bartlett | "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be | "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I | you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise | your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the | was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture | love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never | He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do | mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally."<|quote|>"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."</|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: | A Room With A View |
The girl would not be degraded to this. | No speaker | you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told | that it is a thing you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she | from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. | For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present | the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the | her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened | are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't | between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."<|quote|>The girl would not be degraded to this.</|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never | A Room With A View |
"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." | Lucy | not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn | tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. | said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that | friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even | other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering | what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon | woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have | at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this.<|quote|>"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."</|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution | A Room With A View |
Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: | No speaker | her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with | speak of it either to her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. | tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want | her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been | duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, | great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: | we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?" "At eight." "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already. "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension." "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?" "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms. Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause: "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?" Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy | every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."<|quote|>Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:</|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." | A Room With A View |
"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." | Miss Bartlett | door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and | Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. | she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett | reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from | better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From | in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest | relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said: "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would | never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:<|quote|>"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."</|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather | A Room With A View |
Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: | No speaker | the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, | one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only | be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at | was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching | which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair | will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage | what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!" "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn." "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr. "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your things." "Please--" "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events." "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly. She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster." "But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either." "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?" "Every right." "When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her." Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?" "I suppose I do generally." "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her." The girl would not be degraded to this. "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one." Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his | to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."<|quote|>Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:</|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I | A Room With A View |
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