“I AM so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter, if her cousin had permitted it had George not been present. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.” Lucy knew Miss Bartlett would never take her away from the Bertolini, not now, not with the presentation of their new vicar so close at hand.

“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap for fear that she might give way to swooning like some silly young girl. “And,” Miss Bartlett continued, “she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living — ”

“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is — ’”

“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”

“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.”

Mr. Beebe bowed.

“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch — The church is rather far off, I mean.”

“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.” At hearing Lucy prattle on with the vicar, Miss Bartlett had now regained her countenance as her young cousin’s chaperon.

“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.” Mr. Beebe stole a glance Miss Barlett’s way. A careful observer might have gleaned an added twinkle in his eye, though the vicar was sure to mask any gesture that might appear untoward in polite society.

To be safe at present, he preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”

“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”

“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”

And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, how much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato. That place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”