ee. How are the Miss Alans?"

"Very well, thank you."

"Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?"

"I--I did."

"Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the
two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three
is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the
stables.

"He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop
behind in England."

Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil,
she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so
dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and
the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that
he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry
of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the
old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was
not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk
became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving
him? You are leaving the man you love?"

"I--I had to."

"Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?"

Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing
speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world
when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in
silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to
me"--dreamily; she was not alarmed--"that you are in a muddle."

She shook her head.

"Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the
world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound
so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the
things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I
used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know
better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware
of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be
annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused
the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I
am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me,
Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult."
She was still silent. "'Life' wrote a friend of mine, 'is a public
performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you
go along.' I think h