among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the
earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in
the declining sun.

"Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the
galleries are shut."

"I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the
circular tram--on the platform by the driver."

Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her
in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:

"I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out
alone, won't you be better on your feet?"

"Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan.

"Perhaps I shall meet some one who reads me through and through!"

But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe
as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the
street frequented by tourists.

"She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched
her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much
Beethoven."

Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter

Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after
music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the
suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she
wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on
the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt.
It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte
had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior
to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire
others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by
means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. But
if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then
despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this
point.

There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have
gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She
reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early
Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business,
sweet to pay her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. But alas!
the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are springing
up strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast
panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She ha