“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”

Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:

“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”

The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor at the intensity of his eyes, so low were their chairs.

Lucy held her breath as she sat motionless, waiting for George to speak. His presence caused her heart to flutter, and she wondered if he noticed the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.” George glimpsed at Lucy, a glint of light shone from his fiery eyes, and then he quickly looked away.

Indeed, George would return to her. She clearly saw his intentions in that fleeting expression of his; he was so apparent to her, but thank goodness to her alone. Lucy’s heart raced, her bosom rose higher with each and every breath, and she felt the buds of her bosom beginning to flower.

To feel his touch, those fingers of his reaching for her …

Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.

“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.

“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”

Or not, as Lucy secretly knew. Not anger. It was that beast in him, anticipating what joy they would share together.

“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.

“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize — ” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:

“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”

“How you do everything,” said Lucy.

“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”

“But I would like to help you.”

“No, dear.”

Charlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet — there was a rebellious spirit in her brought about by George’s kiss, which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.