, and she saw to the
bottom of her soul.

"Then, Lucy--"

"You've frightened me," she moaned. "Cecil--Mr. Beebe--the ticket's
bought--everything." She fell sobbing into the chair. "I'm caught in
the tangle. I must suffer and grow old away from him. I cannot break the
whole of life for his sake. They trusted me."

A carriage drew up at the front-door.

"Give George my love--once only. Tell him 'muddle.'" Then she arranged
her veil, while the tears poured over her cheeks inside.

"Lucy--"

"No--they are in the hall--oh, please not, Mr. Emerson--they trust me--"

"But why should they, when you have deceived them?"

Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: "Here's my mother."

"You're not worthy of their trust."

"What's that?" said Mr. Beebe sharply.

"I was saying, why should you trust her when she deceived you?"

"One minute, mother." He came in and shut the door.

"I don't follow you, Mr. Emerson. To whom do you refer? Trust whom?"

"I mean she has pretended to you that she did not love George. They have
loved one another all along."

Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was very quiet, and his white
face, with its ruddy whiskers, seemed suddenly inhuman. A long black
column, he stood and awaited her reply.

"I shall never marry him," quavered Lucy.

A look of contempt came over him, and he said, "Why not?"

"Mr. Beebe--I have misled you--I have misled myself--"

"Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch!"

"It is not rubbish!" said the old man hotly. "It's the part of people
that you don't understand."

Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man's shoulder pleasantly.

"Lucy! Lucy!" called voices from the carriage.

"Mr. Beebe, could you help me?"

He looked amazed at the request, and said in a low, stern voice: "I
am more grieved than I can possibly express. It is lamentable,
lamentable--incredible."

"What's wrong with the boy?" fired up the other again.

"Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he no longer interests me. Marry
George, Miss Honeychurch. He will do admirably."

He walked out and left them. They heard him guiding his mother
up-stairs.

"Lucy!" the voices called.

She turned to Mr. Emerson in despair. But his face revived her. It was
the face of a saint who understood.

"Now it is all dark. Now Beauty and Passion seem never to have existed.
I know. But remember the mountains over Florence and the view. Ah, dear,
if I were George, and gave you one kiss, it would make you brave. You
have