discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.
“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”
The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint.
“No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.”
“Perhaps he’s tired.”
Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.
“Because otherwise”—she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure—“because otherwise I cannot account for him.”
“I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that.”
“Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No—it is just the same thing everywhere.”
“Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?”
“Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?”
“Cecil has a very high standard for people,” faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. “It’s part of his ideals—it is really that that makes him sometimes seem—”
“Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.