would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers.”
“Let me finish the story,” said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.
“Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said: ‘I shall go alone.’ She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience.”
“Whatever happened?” cried Lucy.
“No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling.”
“ Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know.”
Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself.
“No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?”
The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:
“I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets.”
“Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager’s lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do not like the Emersons. They are not nice.”