; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up
to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything
that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight
to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as
girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To
one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a
truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw
her photographs into the River Arno.

"George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for
people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good
spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon."

Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her
reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then
she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told;
I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove
away.

Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence
escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had
sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted
it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a
tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the
melody: "He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was
not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised her
hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But
he has not told. He will not tell."

She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between
us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss
Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at
Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or
little, was guarded.

Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted
her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so
safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:

"The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved
enormously."

"How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,
and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy
Corner for educational purposes.

"Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship
wh