stared at him anxiously.

"She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English
made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.

"I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand
that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian,
for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with
little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged
to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.

"Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand
at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you
will make our dear Lucy happy."

"I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.

"We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she
was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most.
Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;
looking very cross and almost handsome?

"I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.

Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at
them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw
her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He
said, "Steady on!"

"Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother.

Lucy kissed her also.

"Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about
it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my mother."

"We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders.

"Yes, you go with Lucy."

They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,
and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend--he knew their
ways--past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,
until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the
potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.

Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that
had led to such a happy conclusion.

He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl
who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that
afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out
of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter's. That day she had
seemed a typical tourist--shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But
Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and--which h