tennis--he didn't do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not
stopped him.

"Cecil, do read the thing about the view."

"Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us."

"No--read away. I think nothing's funnier than to hear silly things read
out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go."

This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in
the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again.

"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book. Cecil
must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention
wandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr. Eager--had been
murdered in the sight of God according to her son--had seen as far as
Hindhead.

"Am I really to go?" asked George.

"No, of course not really," she answered.

"Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me chapter two, if it isn't
bothering you."

Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.

She thought she had gone mad.

"Here--hand me the book."

She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading--it's too silly
to read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowed to be
printed."

He took the book from her.

"'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich
champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The
season was spring.'"

Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose,
for Cecil to read and for George to hear.

"'A golden haze,'" he read. He read: "'Afar off the towers of Florence,
while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All
unobserved Antonio stole up behind her--'"

Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.

He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formal
lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it.
He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'"

"This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them, "there is another
much funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves.

"Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.

She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She
thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery
it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had
been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved
passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path.

"No