that?" asked Lucy.

Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: "It was
a novel--and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a very nice novel.
It is so sad when people who have abilities misuse them, and I must say
they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the Grotto
of the Calvary at the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a
little ink. She said: 'Can I have a little ink, please?' But you know
what Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the
beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember what she
has written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got tempted
into cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say that she is
writing another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day that
she had got up all the local colour--this novel is to be about modern
Italy; the other was historical--but that she could not start till she
had an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came
here--this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it all!
I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in every one,
even if you do not approve of them."

Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgment.
A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them
unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes
rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too many
allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration.

"All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, but
she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived."

Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she
would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman.

"I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, the
lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emerson,
who puts things very strangely--"

Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were
endless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a
hasty whisper:

"Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and
he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it
was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the
point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning
S., and said she liked plain speaki