s marked the kingdom
of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiant
crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding
heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over
the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy,
not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before the
show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal
Woman, and go there as her transitory self.

Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to
which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has
she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her
particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she
had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really
like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might
not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop.

There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus,
being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss
Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course
signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of
the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt
a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's
"Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido
Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical
approval to every well-known name.

But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed
still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her
to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full
of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not
surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it
always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy.

"Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza
Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to
her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to
strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god,
half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who
idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of
a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, lookin