She scolded herself for allowing her thoughts of the clergyman to roam beyond the boundaries of decent society. Then she forced herself to glance at the severest of paintings mounted on the wall off to the side of Mr. Beebe. Straightening her posture, she smoothed the arm of the chair and reclaimed her matronly position by resting her hands on her lap.

The vicar continued. “He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance,” he gave Charlotte a peculiar smile, which she did her best to ignore before he continued to say, “nor would he expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit — if it is one — of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult — at least, I find it difficult — to understand people who speak the truth.”

Charlotte stiffened, but spoke not.

Lucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.” Moreover, if Lucy were to sleep in the bed where George slept, she would have heavenly dreams. Lucy felt herself becoming aroused again by the thought of sharing his bed. Was it wrong to think like this when the thoughts came so naturally to her?

The vicar continued. “I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect — I may say I hope — you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners — I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners — and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”

“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”

Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.

“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”

“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet.” Lucy listened in silence, but she smiled inwardly when she thought, “he may not know how to talk but he has learnt how to kiss. “He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”

“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”

“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”

“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”