exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.
She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.
“ Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”
“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”
“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe; he is nearly demented.”
“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”
“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”
“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. “Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”
“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“ he knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guidebook, she said, “ Silenzio! ” and offered him a franc.
“ Va bene ,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.
There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had