He forced himself to slow his breathing and continued to gaze out the window. The view was lush and flawless as Italy, herself, would have it; the canvas lacked only the merged flesh of a man and a woman. If only he could take Lucy now, the two might escape the mundane and meld into an eternal perfection …

Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with — well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.

Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”

“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.

Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite, excepting George, of course. She would most certainly have to give the thought of him more consideration.

“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change,” said Miss Bartlett.

Lucy felt her heart twist. To be forced to leave George whom she had only just met was simply unthinkable. How could Charlotte take her away from him? She would not stand for it.

Hardly had Miss Bartlett announced this fell decision when she reversed it. She felt her breath catch in her throat as soon as the curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but pleasingly attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. Oh!”

Miss Bartlett whose head was now beginning to spin with thoughts she had never known said, forcing herself to profess with more restraint:

“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”

The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.