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"Hush, dear!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But | murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a | "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was | chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can | fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it | are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with | introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, | was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."<|quote|>"Hush, dear!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of | A Room With A View |
said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." | No speaker | sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was | wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy | such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. | Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in | mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the | irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not | rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage | earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."</|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in | A Room With A View |
"Poor old man! What was his name?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's | People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there | sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a | "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It | "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves | makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had | sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. | real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."<|quote|>"Poor old man! What was his name?"</|quote|>"Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the | A Room With A View |
"Harris," | Lucy | man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope | certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't | Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty | nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was | I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that | fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not | and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I | affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?"<|quote|>"Harris,"</|quote|>said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side | A Room With A View |
said Lucy glibly. | No speaker | What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris | wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," | absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE | old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one | only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, | fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her | Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really | naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris,"<|quote|>said Lucy glibly.</|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather | A Room With A View |
"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," | Mrs. Honeychurch | name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded | old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a | it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll | sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. | he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world | or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, | with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? | Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly.<|quote|>"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"</|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees | A Room With A View |
said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. | No speaker | there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson | "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he | should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is | try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her | was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, | others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral | pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before | they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person,"<|quote|>said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.</|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the | A Room With A View |
"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" | Cecil | her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. | warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard | was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil | Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's | I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of | agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind | you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent | did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently.<|quote|>"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"</|quote|>he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy | A Room With A View |
he asked. | No speaker | parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate | intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture | old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate | it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and | sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. | Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the | he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as | knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, | A Room With A View |
"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." | Lucy | the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" | Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow | was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should | the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that | clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in | suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed | when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." | from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.<|quote|>"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."</|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not | A Room With A View |
"My goodness gracious me, child!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow | him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is | hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the | intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a | manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could | Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" | so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil | on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."<|quote|>"My goodness gracious me, child!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, | A Room With A View |
said Mrs. Honeychurch. | No speaker | "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! | petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout | warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the | we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated | snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out | jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O | "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry | they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Honeychurch.</|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After | A Room With A View |
"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." | Mrs. Honeychurch | me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed | HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's | person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in | imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, | conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds | Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the | said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the | so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch.<|quote|>"You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."</|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The | A Room With A View |
He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. | No speaker | to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky | I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm | I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things | pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have | he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" | The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded | Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, | Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."<|quote|>He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.</|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said | A Room With A View |
"I count myself a lucky person," | Cecil | perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in | when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could | lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people | sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings | hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee | the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but | said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." | it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.<|quote|>"I count myself a lucky person,"</|quote|>he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O | A Room With A View |
he concluded, | No speaker | count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I | green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live | that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live | beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature | petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his | was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a | tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he | "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person,"<|quote|>he concluded,</|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they | A Room With A View |
"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" | Cecil | a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. | the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. | the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, | but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder | I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, | insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with | don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an | the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded,<|quote|>"When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"</|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. | A Room With A View |
Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: | No speaker | you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O | us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, | ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. | I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded | and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where | round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," | said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal | I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"<|quote|>Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:</|quote|>"What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick | A Room With A View |
"What height?" | Lucy | She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from | her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure | she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods | the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. | I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed | me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil | the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to | was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said:<|quote|>"What height?"</|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building | A Room With A View |
"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' | No speaker | again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's | with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no | looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied | Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre | never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. | said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot | jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, | Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?"<|quote|>"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'</|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before | A Room With A View |
"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" | Cecil | the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said | sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The | wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house | of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas | trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three | smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street | rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the | a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?'<|quote|>"Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"</|quote|>"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to | A Room With A View |
"Summer Street, of course," | Lucy | no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. | Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to | knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. | had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with | people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking | It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years | the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was | People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?"<|quote|>"Summer Street, of course,"</|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known | A Room With A View |
said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. | No speaker | place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching | clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. | She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss | Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," | them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but | one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am | "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them | the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course,"<|quote|>said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.</|quote|>"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at | A Room With A View |
"Stop!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the | "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's | and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." | they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said | the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed | the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an | person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that | lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.<|quote|>"Stop!"</|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, | A Room With A View |
cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. | No speaker | came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we | door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull | announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have | followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the | cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, | town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. | whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, | Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.</|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know | A Room With A View |
"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not | "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage | weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did | block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought | were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of | started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the | slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than | them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.<|quote|>"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"</|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But | A Room With A View |
Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said | No speaker | those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. | shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't | the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his | polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He | and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve | front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the | People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said | to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!"<|quote|>Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. | A Room With A View |
"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." | Sir Harry Otway | to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? | Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone | the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said | was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it | ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if | anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more | man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses | hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."</|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told | A Room With A View |
"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" | to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An | cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building | announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called | Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the | still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That | there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't | Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack."<|quote|>"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"</|quote|>"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his | A Room With A View |
"But what can I do?" | Sir Harry Otway | did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An | live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, | not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic | Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local | were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the | down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, | I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's | splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"<|quote|>"But what can I do?"</|quote|>He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. | A Room With A View |
He lowered his voice. | No speaker | "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very | did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn | carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had | same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and | in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing | mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will | Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who | leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?"<|quote|>He lowered his voice.</|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like | A Room With A View |
"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." | Sir Harry Otway | do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil | time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and | Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he | carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more | the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his | and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service | Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with | more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.<|quote|>"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."</|quote|>"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse | A Room With A View |
"Turn her out," | Cecil | very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry | voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the | turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine | out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but | the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built | again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal | "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to | "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. | A Room With A View |
said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, | No speaker | almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one | lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, | Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did | "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much | they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for | "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for | me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had | gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out,"<|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,</|quote|>"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" | A Room With A View |
For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. | No speaker | introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," | to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps | of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas | tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will | very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do | appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me | he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be | "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different."<|quote|>For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.</|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent | A Room With A View |
"The rent is absurdly low," | Sir Harry Otway | for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps | to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. | Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for | Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of | respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; | carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen | sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that | a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.<|quote|>"The rent is absurdly low,"</|quote|>he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in | A Room With A View |
he told them, | No speaker | "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an | for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is | in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The | he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train | would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them | and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and | Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't | Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low,"<|quote|>he told them,</|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to | A Room With A View |
"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." | Sir Harry Otway | absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether | really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas | to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. | his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who | more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the | came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who | denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, | meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them,<|quote|>"and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."</|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the | A Room With A View |
Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. | No speaker | one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a | and too small for any one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said | to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to | filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She | saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with | need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan | the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his | he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."<|quote|>Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.</|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil | A Room With A View |
"You ought to find a tenant at once," | Cecil | impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would | for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for | landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from | was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless | should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! | I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said | looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." | respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.<|quote|>"You ought to find a tenant at once,"</|quote|>he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone | A Room With A View |
he said maliciously. | No speaker | find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect | more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." | It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in | spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused | Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell | gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't | much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you | for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once,"<|quote|>he said maliciously.</|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured | A Room With A View |
"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." | Cecil | at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. | ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I | large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would | yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have | all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have | contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly | It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. | Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously.<|quote|>"It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."</|quote|>"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going | A Room With A View |
"Exactly!" | Sir Harry Otway | paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That | "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, | one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," | he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an | capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no | she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable | beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I | roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."<|quote|>"Exactly!"</|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they | A Room With A View |
said Sir Harry excitedly. | No speaker | for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I | would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will | the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who | could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you | different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the | did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." | of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters | Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!"<|quote|>said Sir Harry excitedly.</|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured | A Room With A View |
"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" | Sir Harry Otway | "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it | paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, | Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. | to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and | the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about | time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot | "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice | gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly.<|quote|>"That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"</|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses | A Room With A View |
"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," | Lucy | in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had | five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval | perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an | class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. | of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up | of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, | sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head | so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"<|quote|>"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"</|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I | A Room With A View |
said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. | No speaker | strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I | days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would | said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and | the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have | futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. | bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the | of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither | came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,"<|quote|>said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.</|quote|>"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then | A Room With A View |
"Sir Harry!" | Lucy | roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an | at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like | "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine | perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, | spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is | and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and | two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor | I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.<|quote|>"Sir Harry!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over | A Room With A View |
she exclaimed, | No speaker | to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How | harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My | strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm | for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I | much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have | brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the | and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor | into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!"<|quote|>she exclaimed,</|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. | A Room With A View |
"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" | Lucy | him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would | and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know | it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. | bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The | ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen | to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to | upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, | again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"</|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite | A Room With A View |
"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" | Sir Harry Otway | How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." | exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, | full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to | exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful | a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have | Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of | stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she | approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?"<|quote|>"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"</|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come | A Room With A View |
"Yes; I met them abroad." | Lucy | Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, | Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present | middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he | of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to | low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring | tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip | near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she | builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"<|quote|>"Yes; I met them abroad."</|quote|>"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, | A Room With A View |
"Gentlewomen?" | Sir Harry Otway | "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, | Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment | a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. | has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain | perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms | artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over | it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did | for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad."<|quote|>"Gentlewomen?"</|quote|>he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give | A Room With A View |
he asked tentatively. | No speaker | I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the | you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard | most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are | improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position | I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that | roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they | scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but | what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?"<|quote|>he asked tentatively.</|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is | A Room With A View |
"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" | Lucy | abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. | such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the | She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, | to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the | easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as | out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil | cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" | roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.<|quote|>"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"</|quote|>"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for | A Room With A View |
"Indeed you may!" | Sir Harry Otway | them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are | them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. | I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her | classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this | despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a | decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open | competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. | he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"<|quote|>"Indeed you may!"</|quote|>he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they | A Room With A View |
he cried. | No speaker | to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the | I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful | abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain | at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. | latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad | hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to | engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of | told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to | A Room With A View |
"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" | Sir Harry Otway | "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put | them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to | he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, | most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said | seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the | a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young | been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not | his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried.<|quote|>"Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"</|quote|>She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who | A Room With A View |
She nodded. | No speaker | My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. | of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing | in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd | Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I | neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out | spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and | weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit | differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"<|quote|>She nodded.</|quote|>"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar | A Room With A View |
"My advice," | Mrs. Honeychurch | Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is | most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do | As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather | tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met | roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the | and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened | pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave | clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded.<|quote|>"My advice,"</|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and | A Room With A View |
put in Mrs. Honeychurch, | No speaker | deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to | people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her | one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who | they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should | to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages | Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. | a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as | Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice,"<|quote|>put in Mrs. Honeychurch,</|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? | A Room With A View |
"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." | Mrs. Honeychurch | advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," | the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it | And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to | facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I | Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a | as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife | with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the | too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch,<|quote|>"is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."</|quote|>"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor | A Room With A View |
"I think I follow you," | Sir Harry Otway | someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it | in the world than to someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a | all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's | And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" | Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." | hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. | described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, | would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down."<|quote|>"I think I follow you,"</|quote|>said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to | A Room With A View |
said Sir Harry; | No speaker | "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you | someone who has come down." "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." | Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am | have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his | I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. | the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here | said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do | relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you,"<|quote|>said Sir Harry;</|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, | A Room With A View |
"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." | Sir Harry Otway | follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" | come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," | people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles | good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain | to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their | despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his | I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. | wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry;<|quote|>"but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."</|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, | A Room With A View |
"The Misses Alan aren't that!" | Lucy | say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," | "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met | them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really | deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, | we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of | the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, | Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I | been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."<|quote|>"The Misses Alan aren't that!"</|quote|>cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage | A Room With A View |
cried Lucy. | No speaker | "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. | say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but | smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am | people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of | solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty | to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even | always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a | Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!"<|quote|>cried Lucy.</|quote|>"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be | A Room With A View |
"Yes, they are," | Cecil | Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met | very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say | It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and | dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit | How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave | a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken | She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess | herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.<|quote|>"Yes, they are,"</|quote|>said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect | A Room With A View |
said Cecil. | No speaker | cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but | "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were | thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway | deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed | is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much | once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All | have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of | heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are,"<|quote|>said Cecil.</|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live | A Room With A View |
"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." | Cecil | "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir | Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who | I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." | nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only | facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect | said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters | before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. | mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil.<|quote|>"I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."</|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that | A Room With A View |
"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." | Lucy | unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," | say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to | has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses | decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured | agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature | "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir | time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a | from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."</|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a | A Room With A View |
"It's I who am tiresome," | Sir Harry Otway | to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to | to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to | you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye | type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the | me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be | Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of | lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, | The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."<|quote|>"It's I who am tiresome,"</|quote|>he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of | A Room With A View |
he replied. | No speaker | "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with | to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. | it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when | who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of | wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and | wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. | lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then | he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome,"<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters | A Room With A View |
"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." | Sir Harry Otway | who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to | Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But | as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only | seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. | letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two | of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But | very vulgar, and almost bedridden." "Turn her out," said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. | Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied.<|quote|>"I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."</|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some | A Room With A View |
"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" | Lucy | true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered | too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! | "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, | has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." | or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her | had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough | building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with | woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help."<|quote|>"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"</|quote|>"Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." | A Room With A View |
"Please!" | Sir Harry Otway | write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when | real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They | I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though | said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir | have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial | that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to | He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no | one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"<|quote|>"Please!"</|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor | A Room With A View |
But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: | No speaker | to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to | help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware | who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men | Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these | seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad | the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and | had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he | had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"<|quote|>But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:</|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his | A Room With A View |
"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." | Mrs. Honeychurch | wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though | Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of | come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of | a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She | this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I | improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would | that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led | that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:<|quote|>"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."</|quote|>"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his | A Room With A View |
"Really--" | Sir Harry Otway | Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he | come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her | to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, | Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was | I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't | Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be | the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him | Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."<|quote|>"Really--"</|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an | A Room With A View |
he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. | No speaker | let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. | Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's | my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed | Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live | know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." | it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further | local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some | you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--"<|quote|>he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.</|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood | A Room With A View |
"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." | Mrs. Honeychurch | the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he | murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open | exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had | to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her | days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. | met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an | have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she | It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.<|quote|>"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."</|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it | A Room With A View |
Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. | No speaker | man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what | spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home | though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" | "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his | said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! | I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know | relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't | to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."<|quote|>Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.</|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. | A Room With A View |
"Mrs. Honeychurch," | Cecil | as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we | scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we two walk home and leave | time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, | keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He | which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his | references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you | Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away | "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.<|quote|>"Mrs. Honeychurch,"</|quote|>he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not | A Room With A View |
he said, | No speaker | followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk | pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" | descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before | to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong | quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head | took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never | buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, | do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to | A Room With A View |
"what if we two walk home and leave you?" | Cecil | mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. | back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost | the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't | It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give | but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy | were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the | futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then | fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said,<|quote|>"what if we two walk home and leave you?"</|quote|>"Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not | A Room With A View |
"Certainly!" | Mrs. Honeychurch | walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir | said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too | delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help | provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless | my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was | the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood | as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy | facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"<|quote|>"Certainly!"</|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. | A Room With A View |
was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, | No speaker | home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" | "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock | Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands | he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even | Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really | deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain | he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered | with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!"<|quote|>was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,</|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in | A Room With A View |
"Aha! young people, young people!" | Sir Harry Otway | beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock | get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed | were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad | did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All | canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? | dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his | as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, | come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,<|quote|>"Aha! young people, young people!"</|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you | A Room With A View |
and then hastened to unlock the house. | No speaker | "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost | beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of | Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would | distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said | out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, | nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as | money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there | at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"<|quote|>and then hastened to unlock the house.</|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further | A Room With A View |
"Hopeless vulgarian!" | Cecil | hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they | people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, | her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his | she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though | and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, | "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his | as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a | and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house.<|quote|>"Hopeless vulgarian!"</|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but | A Room With A View |
exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. | No speaker | unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help | people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong | "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and | time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so | the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any | have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, | as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, | a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!"<|quote|>exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.</|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety | A Room With A View |
"Oh, Cecil!" | Lucy | they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It | vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to | home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife | for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." | to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It | gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure | find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he | I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.<|quote|>"Oh, Cecil!"</|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be | A Room With A View |
"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." | Cecil | out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really | Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, | leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god | She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, | man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further | all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had | desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of | smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"<|quote|>"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."</|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook | A Room With A View |
"He isn't clever, but really he is nice." | Lucy | not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for | it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in | glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his | in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope | "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he | days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel | told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her | good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."<|quote|>"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."</|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led | A Room With A View |
"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." | Cecil | but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is | that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though | at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some | her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would | drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, | the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort | landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green. "Who found you out?" "Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us. | people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice."<|quote|>"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."</|quote|>"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now | A Room With A View |
"All that you say is quite true," | Lucy | everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt | and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it | bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice | people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither | much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath | Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you | he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green. "Who found you out?" "Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us. Charlotte--Charlotte." "Poor girl!" She smiled gravely. A | the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in."<|quote|>"All that you say is quite true,"</|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy | A Room With A View |
said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. | No speaker | you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters | mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters | would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald | house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and | if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there | should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a | perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green. "Who found you out?" "Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us. Charlotte--Charlotte." "Poor girl!" She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he | bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true,"<|quote|>said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.</|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type | A Room With A View |
"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." | Lucy | Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry | say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that | belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." | before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It | from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, | unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you | "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green. "Who found you out?" "Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us. Charlotte--Charlotte." "Poor girl!" She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical. "Lucy!" "Yes, I | a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged.<|quote|>"I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."</|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between | A Room With A View |
"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him." | Cecil | it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough | felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked | would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It | "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last | She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields | him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? | what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green. "Who found you out?" "Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us. Charlotte--Charlotte." "Poor girl!" She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical. "Lucy!" "Yes, I suppose we ought to be going," was her reply. "Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before." At the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him. "What, Cecil?" "Hitherto never--not even that day on the lawn when you agreed | most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."<|quote|>"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."</|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. "Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and | A Room With A View |
This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. | No speaker | chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" | his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of | "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather | would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" | leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever | write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been | share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green. "Who found you out?" "Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us. Charlotte--Charlotte." "Poor girl!" She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical. "Lucy!" "Yes, I suppose we ought to be going," was her reply. "Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before." At the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him. "What, Cecil?" "Hitherto never--not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me--" He became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone. "Yes?" "Up to now I have never kissed you." She was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately. "No--more you have," she stammered. "Then I ask you--may I now?" "Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can't run at you, you know." At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil. As he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he | who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help." "Then may I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!" But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: "Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man." "Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark. "Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean." Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale. Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. "Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?" "Certainly!" was her cordial reply. Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hastened to unlock the house. "Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!" "I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man." "He isn't clever, but really he is nice." "No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and everyone--even your mother--is taken in." "All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much." "It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."<|quote|>This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.</|quote|>"Which way shall we go?" she asked him. Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad. "Are there two ways?" "Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart." "I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?" "Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning. She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards. "I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with me in a room." "A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. "Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this." "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person." "I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?" She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: "Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!" To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. "A drawing-room, pray? With no view?" "Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?" "I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open air." She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?" As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm. Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?" "I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it." "And you?" He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row." At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no | A Room With A View |
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