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"Good-night, Mr. Emerson." | Miss Bartlett | returned, and Miss Bartlett said:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was | Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon | 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:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>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 | 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:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>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 | 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:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>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 | 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:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>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 | 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." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope | 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:<|quote|>"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."</|quote|>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 | A Room With A View |
His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: | No speaker | Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't | their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want | 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."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"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 | "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."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly | 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."<|quote|>His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." | Lucy | her work. Lucy cried aloud:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the | reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at | 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:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>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 | 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:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>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 | 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:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>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 | 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:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>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 | 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." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have | 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:<|quote|>"It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."</|quote|>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, | A Room With A View |
Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. | No speaker | want to grow older quickly."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"Go to bed at once, | not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the | 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."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"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 | 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 be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his | 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."<|quote|>Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." | Miss Bartlett | Bartlett tapped on the wall.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>In the morning they left | to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter | 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.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>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 | 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 the wall.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. | 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.<|quote|>"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."</|quote|>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!'" | A Room With A View |
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. | No speaker | the rest you can get."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"Where aren't they?" said the | once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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:" | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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 the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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, | A Room With A View |
"Where aren't they?" | Freddy | that they were still there.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>said the boy, who was | carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell | 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.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>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." | 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.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>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, | 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.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>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 | 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 that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." | 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.<|quote|>"Where aren't they?"</|quote|>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? | A Room With A View |
said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. | No speaker | still there. "Where aren't they?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting | the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake | 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?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"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, | 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?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"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 | 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 that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but | 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?"<|quote|>said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. | A Room With A View |
"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." | Freddy | who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out | aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried | 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.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"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 | "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.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And | 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.<|quote|>"I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | you I'm getting fairly sick."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped | Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of | 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."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>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." | 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."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>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 | 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. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just | 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."<|quote|>"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"</|quote|>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 | A Room With A View |
cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. | No speaker | out of my drawing-room, then?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"I think things are coming | sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head," she observed, | 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?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"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. | 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?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"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 | 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. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not | 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?"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"I think things are coming to a head," | Mrs. Honeychurch | did not move or reply.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her | by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation | 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.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>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 | 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 or reply.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to | 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.<|quote|>"I think things are coming to a head,"</|quote|>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 | A Room With A View |
she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. | No speaker | are coming to a head,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"Time they did." "I am | or reply. "I think things are coming to a head,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking | 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,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"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. | 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,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"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 | "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,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when | 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,"<|quote|>she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"Time they did." | Freddy | obtain it without undue supplication.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil | the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once | 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.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"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, | 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 undue supplication.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite | 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.<|quote|>"Time they did."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean | A Room With A View |
"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." | Mrs. Honeychurch | undue supplication. "Time they did."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't | she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call | 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."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"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" | 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."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"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. | 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."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"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 | 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 undue supplication. "Time they did."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal | 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."<|quote|>"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"It's his third go, isn't it?" | Freddy | asking her this once more."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"Freddy I do call the | am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I | 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."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"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. | 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."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"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 | 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 undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I | 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."<|quote|>"It's his third go, isn't it?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his | A Room With A View |
"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." | Mrs. Honeychurch | his third go, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"I didn't mean to be | her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But | 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?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"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, | 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?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"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 | 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 undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's | 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?"<|quote|>"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had | A Room With A View |
"I didn't mean to be unkind." | Freddy | the way you talk unkind."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>Then he added: "But I | it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have | 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."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>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 | 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 call the way you talk unkind."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make | 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."<|quote|>"I didn't mean to be unkind."</|quote|>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 hand." | A Room With A View |
Then he added: | No speaker | didn't mean to be unkind."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"But I do think Lucy | way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"But I do think Lucy might have got this off | 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."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"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 | 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 mean to be unkind."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any | 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."<|quote|>Then he added:</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How | A Room With A View |
"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" | Freddy | be unkind." Then he added:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'No' "properly before, or she | unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it | 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:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'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. | 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:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'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 | 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:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'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 | "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:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a | 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 mean to be unkind." Then he added:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But | 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:<|quote|>"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"</|quote|>'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 | A Room With A View |
'No' | No speaker | but she can't have said"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"properly before, or she wouldn't | know how girls manage things, but she can't have said"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again | "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"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"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.'" | 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"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"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 | 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"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"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, | 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"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful | 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 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"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I | 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"<|quote|>'No'</|quote|>"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. | A Room With A View |
"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." | Freddy | she can't have said" 'No'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How | how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He | 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'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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." | 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'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to | 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 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'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy | 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'<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | explain--I do feel so uncomfortable."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"I feel--never mind." He returned | Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen | 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."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"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, | 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."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"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. | 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."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say | 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 to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at | 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."<|quote|>"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but | A Room With A View |
"I feel--never mind." | Freddy | you indeed, dear? How interesting!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>He returned to his work. | do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I | 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!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>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 | 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!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>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?" | 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!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>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 | 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!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought | 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 to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of | 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!"<|quote|>"I feel--never mind."</|quote|>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 Room With A View |
He returned to his work. | No speaker | How interesting!" "I feel--never mind."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"Just listen to what I | uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. | 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."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"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, | 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."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"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, | 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."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." | 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 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."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a | 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 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."<|quote|>He returned to his work.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered | A Room With A View |
"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" | Mrs. Honeychurch | He returned to his work.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. | How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I | 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.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"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 | "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.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's | 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 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.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made | 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.<|quote|>"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep | A Room With A View |
"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." | Freddy | I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, | have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my | "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.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"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. | 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.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"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 | 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.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"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 | 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.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man | 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 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.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. | 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.'"<|quote|>"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and | A Room With A View |
"I said:" | Mrs. Honeychurch | me. A jolly good letter."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has | Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about | 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."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'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 | 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."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'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 | 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."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'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 | 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."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil | 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 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."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that | 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."<|quote|>"I said:"</|quote|>'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 Room With A View |
'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, | No speaker | jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at | mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at | 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:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"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 | 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:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"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 | "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:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"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. | 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:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, | 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 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:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He | 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:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed | A Room With A View |
"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." | Mrs. Honeychurch | it. But--'" She stopped reading,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. | be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He | "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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. | 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 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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if | 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,<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as | A Room With A View |
"Nor me." | Freddy | can't get on without me."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"You?" Freddy nodded. "What do | comes to the point, he can't get on without me."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me | 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."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"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 | "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."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I | 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 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."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes | 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."<|quote|>"Nor me."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say | A Room With A View |
"You?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | on without me." "Nor me."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>Freddy nodded. "What do you | the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for | 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."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel | 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 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."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' | 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."<|quote|>"You?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I | A Room With A View |
Freddy nodded. | No speaker | without me." "Nor me." "You?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"What do you mean?" "He | point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission | 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?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"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," | 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?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's | 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 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?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I | 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?"<|quote|>Freddy nodded.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having | A Room With A View |
"What do you mean?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"He asked me for my | can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How | 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.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do | 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 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.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at 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.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well | A Room With A View |
"He asked me for my permission also." | Freddy | nodded. "What do you mean?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>She exclaimed: "How very odd | me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked | 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?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>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 | 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?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>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 | 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?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>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 | 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?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man | 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 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?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' | 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?"<|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some | A Room With A View |
She exclaimed: | No speaker | me for my permission also."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"How very odd of him!" | do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son | 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."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some | 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 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."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must | 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."<|quote|>She exclaimed:</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, | A Room With A View |
"How very odd of him!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | my permission also." She exclaimed:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"Why so?" asked the son | mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my | 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:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"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, | 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:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"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 | 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:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"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, | 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:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, | 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 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:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" | 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:<|quote|>"How very odd of him!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." | A Room With A View |
"Why so?" | Freddy | "How very odd of him!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>asked the son and heir. | my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be | 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!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>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 | 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!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>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 | 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!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>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 | 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!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the | 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 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!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I | 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!"<|quote|>"Why so?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I | A Room With A View |
asked the son and heir. | No speaker | odd of him!" "Why so?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be | also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know | 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?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has | 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 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?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But | 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?"<|quote|>asked the son and heir.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." | A Room With A View |
"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" | Freddy | asked the son and heir.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"What do you know about | odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? | 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.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not | 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 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.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in | 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.<|quote|>"Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say | A Room With A View |
"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | shouldn't my permission be asked?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"I said to Cecil," 'Take | the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's | 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?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why | 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 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?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want | "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?"<|quote|>"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the | A Room With A View |
"I said to Cecil," | Freddy | What ever did you say?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'Take her or leave her; | Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" | 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?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'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 | 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?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'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 | 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?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'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 | 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?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, | 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 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?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think | 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?"<|quote|>"I said to Cecil,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. | A Room With A View |
'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" | No speaker | say?" "I said to Cecil,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"What a helpful answer!" But | anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more | "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,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn | 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 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,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her | 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,"<|quote|>'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down | A Room With A View |
"What a helpful answer!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | it's no business of mine!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>But her own answer, though | 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, | 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!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>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 | 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!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>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 | 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!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>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 | 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!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my | 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 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!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the | 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!'"<|quote|>"What a helpful answer!"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. | A Room With A View |
But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. | No speaker | mine!'" "What a helpful answer!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"The bother is this," began | her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up | 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!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"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 | 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!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"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 | 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!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said | 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!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't | 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 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!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you | 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!"<|quote|>But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, | A Room With A View |
"The bother is this," | Freddy | been to the same effect.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took | normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I | 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 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this,"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't | A Room With A View |
began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. | No speaker | effect. "The bother is this,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There | had been to the same effect. "The bother is this,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't | 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,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked | 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,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. | 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 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,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. | 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,"<|quote|>began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to | A Room With A View |
"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | went back to the window.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"I don't see you ought | the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." | 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.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"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. | 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.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think | 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.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, | 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 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.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must | 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.<|quote|>"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some | A Room With A View |
"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." | Freddy | come. There they still are!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I | the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own | 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!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"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 | 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!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"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 | 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!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable | 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!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! | 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 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!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, | 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!"<|quote|>"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, | A Room With A View |
"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | to go peeping like that."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>But she returned to the | "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed | 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."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take | 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."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well | 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 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."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from | 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."<|quote|>"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know | A Room With A View |
But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, | No speaker | out of my own window?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, | like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. | 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?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your | 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?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained | 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 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?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit | 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?"<|quote|>But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! | A Room With A View |
"Still page 322?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | as she passed her son,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>Freddy snorted, and turned over | returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief | 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,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>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 | 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,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>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 | 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,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare | 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,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: | 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 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,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. | 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,<|quote|>"Still page 322?"</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I | A Room With A View |
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. | No speaker | her son, "Still page 322?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"The bother is this: I | writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe | 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 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in | A Room With A View |
"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." | Freddy | long conversation had never ceased.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp. | the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't | 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 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should | 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.<|quote|>"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."</|quote|>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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. | A Room With A View |
He gave a nervous gulp. | No speaker | it with Cecil most awfully."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which | have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to | 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."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say | 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."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in | 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."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes | 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 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."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes | 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."<|quote|>He gave a nervous gulp.</|quote|>"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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, | A Room With A View |
"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," | Freddy | He gave a nervous gulp.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'I don't mind' "--well, not | it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted | 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.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'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 | 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.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. | 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.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." | 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.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what | 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 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.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and | 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.<|quote|>"Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"</|quote|>'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked | A Room With A View |
'I don't mind' | No speaker | is to say, I said,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--well, not content with that, | 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether | 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,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--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 | 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,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're | 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,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. | 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,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He | 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 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,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days | 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,"<|quote|>'I don't mind'</|quote|>"--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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, | A Room With A View |
"--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 hand." | Freddy | I said," 'I don't mind'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a | did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered | 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'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so | 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'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't | 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'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" | 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'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." | 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 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'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save 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'<|quote|>"--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 hand."</|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted | A Room With A View |
"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." | Mrs. Honeychurch | it would strengthen his hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the | would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! | 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 hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable | 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 hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if | 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 hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't | 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 hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You | 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 hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, | 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 hand."<|quote|>"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."</|quote|>"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I | A Room With A View |
"I answered 'No'" | Freddy | gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his | his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."<|quote|>"I answered 'No'"</|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of | A Room With A View |
said the boy, grinding his teeth. | No speaker | answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! | hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don'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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'"<|quote|>said the boy, grinding his teeth.</|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. | A Room With A View |
"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." | Freddy | the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. | dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth.<|quote|>"There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."</|quote|>"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil | A Room With A View |
"Ridiculous child!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think | to say no. He ought never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, | have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his | "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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me."<|quote|>"Ridiculous child!"</|quote|>cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks | A Room With A View |
cried his mother. | No speaker | have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy | no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's | answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!"<|quote|>cried his mother.</|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: | A Room With A View |
"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! | never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no | would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep | '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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother.<|quote|>"You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"</|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may | A Room With A View |
"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." | Freddy | How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with | hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who | to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my | her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?"<|quote|>"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."</|quote|>"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for | A Room With A View |
"No," | Mrs. Honeychurch | a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the | keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has | no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." | "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's | '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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. | A Room With A View |
said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, | No speaker | man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. | quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has | when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. | think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,</|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But | A Room With A View |
"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." | Mrs. Honeychurch | who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. | with the air of one who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I | mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's | you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject,<|quote|>"I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."</|quote|>"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's | A Room With A View |
"Not a bit!" | Freddy | him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let | him, and try to turn him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. | said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, | when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him | strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house."<|quote|>"Not a bit!"</|quote|>he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just | A Room With A View |
he pleaded. | No speaker | my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I | to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't | with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well | say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's | "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!"<|quote|>he pleaded.</|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked | A Room With A View |
"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." | Freddy | "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains | him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," | air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, | I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I | you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if | A Room With A View |
He glanced at the curtains dismally. | No speaker | is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said | like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his | why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She | But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes | say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."<|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally.</|quote|>"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told | A Room With A View |
"Well, I like him," | Mrs. Honeychurch | glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know | that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's | yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has | it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. | no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally.<|quote|>"Well, I like him,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop | A Room With A View |
said Mrs. Honeychurch. | No speaker | dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's | He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, | him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I | quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, | to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's | A Room With A View |
"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." | Mrs. Honeychurch | like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing | the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face | to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his | let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's | me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil | "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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."</|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy | A Room With A View |
She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: | No speaker | you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." | connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just | I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." | passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me | slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected."<|quote|>She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:</|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh | A Room With A View |
"And he has beautiful manners." | Mrs. Honeychurch | face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just | rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having | I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny | you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come | you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added:<|quote|>"And he has beautiful manners."</|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would | A Room With A View |
"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." | Freddy | "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, | face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. | Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. | try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop | keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners."<|quote|>"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."</|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have | A Room With A View |
"Mr. Beebe?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to | and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't | like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" | don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting | Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval | married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."<|quote|>"Mr. Beebe?"</|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in | A Room With A View |
said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. | No speaker | said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. | also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know | well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make | him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and | too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little | How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?"<|quote|>said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.</|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the | A Room With A View |
"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." | Mrs. Honeychurch | trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny | "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite | eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me | Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the | right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest.<|quote|>"I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."</|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the | A Room With A View |
"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" | Freddy | how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal | her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, | "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." | I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being | Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."<|quote|>"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"</|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it | A Room With A View |
'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' | No speaker | what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I | when you never quite know what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. | spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I | he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made | with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" | as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:"<|quote|>'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'</|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' | A Room With A View |
"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" | Freddy | Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' | he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say | and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting | the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? | has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed | ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.'<|quote|>"I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"</|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy | A Room With A View |
'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' | No speaker | what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say | very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set | said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation | well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind | that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel | Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said"<|quote|>'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'</|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the | A Room With A View |
"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." | Freddy | 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But | what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous | conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being | if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a | in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.'<|quote|>"I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."</|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But | A Room With A View |
"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." | Mrs. Honeychurch | pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and | Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. | 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was | spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, | he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat | "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<|quote|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who | A Room With A View |
The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. | No speaker | Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his | Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has | me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy | trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, | mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. | stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would | a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."<|quote|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.</|quote|>"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as | A Room With A View |
"Will this do?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. | he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my | made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy | I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's | home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left | laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them | couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.<|quote|>"Will this do?"</|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear | A Room With A View |
called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' | No speaker | foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at | dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at the top," 'and I have | in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse | are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in | also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted | I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go | ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?"<|quote|>called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'</|quote|>"Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the | A Room With A View |
"Then I put in at the top," | Mrs. Honeychurch | delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy | it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the | fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in | it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't | Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have | my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking | say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.'<|quote|>"Then I put in at the top,"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled | A Room With A View |
'and I have told Lucy so.' | No speaker | put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter | Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have | Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, | brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? | Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems | quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." | said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top,"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so.'</|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, | A Room With A View |
"I must write the letter out again--" | Mrs. Honeychurch | I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy | in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very | jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer | Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for | quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young | do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched | if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.'<|quote|>"I must write the letter out again--"</|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in | A Room With A View |
'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' | No speaker | write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I | told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to | man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat | athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when | 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not | with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain | "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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend--he knew their ways--past the shrubbery, and | air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--"<|quote|>'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'</|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a | A Room With A View |
"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" | Mrs. Honeychurch | people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would | and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, | and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he | the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my | me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, | between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend--he knew their ways--past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed. Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion. He had known Lucy | the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.'<|quote|>"I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"</|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. | A Room With A View |
"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" | Freddy | She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where | turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young | said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop | I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I | explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and | is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend--he knew their ways--past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed. Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion. He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. | he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"<|quote|>"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"</|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" | A Room With A View |
"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" | Mrs. Honeychurch | flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for | would she live in a flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy | in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I | top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, | his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. | him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend--he knew their ways--past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed. Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion. He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at | suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?"<|quote|>"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"</|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I | A Room With A View |
'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' | No speaker | Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last | country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll | the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, | write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried | one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on | good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend--he knew their ways--past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed. Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion. He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter's. That day she had seemed a typical tourist--shrill, | He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--"<|quote|>'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'</|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as | A Room With A View |
"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" | Mrs. Honeychurch | when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' | wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that | Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have | I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He | who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air | her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look | 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 hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome? "I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!" "Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her also. "Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother." "We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders. "Yes, you go with Lucy." They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend--he knew their ways--past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed. Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion. He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter's. That day she had seemed a typical tourist--shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. | of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.'<|quote|>"No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at"</|quote|>'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so | A Room With A View |
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