“This very square⁠—so I am told⁠—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration⁠—portentous and humiliating.”

“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.” She glanced at Lucy proudly.

“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.

Miss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”

“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.